THE  D.H.HILL  LIBRAKY 
N.C.  STATE  CpLLEGE 


i  V 


l^. 


This  book  is  due  on  the  date  indicated 
below  and  is  subject  to  an  overdue 
fine  as  posted  at  the  circulation  desk. 

EXCEPTION:  Date  due  will  be 
earlier  if  this  item  is  RECALLED. 

^ 

200M/09-98-981815 

WILLIAM  BEEBE 

Author  of  Edge  of  the  Jungle,  Jungle  Days,  Gallapagos, 
World's  End,  The  Arcturus  Adventure,  etc. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JUNGLE  DAYS 
"THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN,"  ETC. 


» 


e^t'^ 


^(5^ 


^IKSS^ 


EDGE    OF    THE 
JUNGLE 


By  WILLIAM  BEEBE 

Honorary  Curator  of  Birds  and  Director  of  the  Tropical 
Research  Station  of  the  New  York  Zoological  Society. 


^tmt^ 


GARDEN     CITY,     NEW    YORK 

GARDEN  CITY  PUBLISHING  CO.,  INC. 


COPTBIGHT,   1921 

By  henry  holt  AND  COMPANY 


FBIXTED  m  THE  UmTED  STATES  OF  AHEBICA 


TO 

THE  BIEDS  AND  BUTTERFLIES, 
THE  ANTS  AND  TREE-FROGS 
WHO  HAVE  TOLERATED  MB  IN 
THEIR  JUNGLE  ANTE-CHAMBERS 
I  OFFER  THIS  VOLUME  OF 
FRIENDLY  WORDS 


lS72f^9 


NOTE 

This  second  series  of  essays,  following  those  in 
Jungle  Peace,  are  republished  by  the  kindness  of 
the  Editors  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Harper's 
Magazine  and  House  and  Garden, 

With  the  exception  of  A  Tropic  Garden  which 
refers  to  the  Botanical  Gardens  of  Georgetown, 
all  deal  with  the  jungle  immediately  about  the 
Tropical  Research  Station  of  the  New  York 
Zoological  Society,  situated  at  Kartabo,  at  the 
junction  of  the  Cuyuni  and  Mazaruni  Rivers,  in 
British  Guiana. 

For  the  accurate  identification  of  the  more  im- 
portant organisms  mentioned,  a  brief  appendix 
of  scientific  names  has  been  prepared. 


CHAPTER 
I 

CONTENTS 

The  Lure  of  Kartabo 

PAGE 

3 

II 

A  Jungle  Clearing 

34 

III 

The  Home  Town  of  the  Army 
Ants 

58 

IV 

A  Jungle  Beach  .... 

90 

V 

A  Bit  OF  Uselessness    . 

112 

VI 

GUINEYERE   THE   MYSTERIOUS 

123 

VII 

A  Jungle  Labor  Union 

149 

VIII 

The  Attas  at  Home    ., 

172 

IX 

Hammock  Nights 

195 

X 

A  Tropic  Garden 

230 

XI 

The  Bay  of  Butterflies    . 

252 

XII 

Sequels 

274 

Appendix  of  Scientific  Names 

295 

Index 

299 

EDGE  OF  THE  TUNGLF 


"For  the  true  scientific  method  is  this: 
To  trust  no  statements  without  verification, 
to  test  all  things  as  rigorously  as  possible, 
to  keep  no  secrets,  to  attempt  no  monopolies, 
to  give  out  one's  best  modestly  and  plainly, 
serving  no  other  end  but  knowledge." 

H.  G.  Wells. 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO 

A  HOUSE  may  be  inherited,  as  when  a  wren 
rears  its  brood  in  turn  within  its  own  natal  hol- 
low; or  one  may  build  a  new  home  such  as  is 
fashioned  from  year  to  year  by  gaunt  and  shad- 
owy herons;  or  we  may  have  it  built  to  order, 
as  do  the  drones  of  the  wild  jungle  bees.  In  my 
case,  I  flitted  like  a  hermit  crab  from  one  used 
shell  to  another.  This  little  crustacean,  living 
his  oblique  life  in  the  shallows,  changes  doorways 
when  his  home  becomes  too  small  or  hinders  him 
in  searching  for  the  things  which  he  covets  in 
life.  The  difference  between  our  estates  was 
that  the  hermit  crab  sought  only  for  food,  I 
chiefly  for  strange  new  facts — which  was  a  dis- 
tinction as  trivial  as  that  he  achieved  his  desires 
sideways  and  on  eight  legs,  while  I  traversed  my 
environment  usually  forward  and  generally  on 
two. 

The  word  of  finance  went  forth  and  demanded 
the  felling  of  the  second  growth  around  Kala- 


P.  H  HILL  LIBRARY 
North  Carolina  Statf*  Colka* 


4  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

coon,  and  for  the  second  time  the  land  was  given 
over  to  cutlass  and  fire.  But  again  there  was 
a  halting  in  the  affairs  of  man,  and  the  rubber 
saplings  were  not  planted  or  were  smothered; 
and  again  the  jungle  smiled  patiently  through 
a  knee-tangle  of  thorns  and  blossoms,  and  the 
charred  clumps  of  razor-grass  sent  forth  skeins 
of  saws  and  hanks  of  living  barbs. 

I  stood  beneath  the  familiar  cashew  trees, 
wliich  had  yielded  for  me  so  bountifully  of  their 
crops  of  blossoms  and  hummingbirds,  of  fruit  and 
of  tanagers,  and  looked  out  toward  the  distant 
jungle,  which  trembled  through  the  expanse  of 
palpitating  heat-waves;  and  I  knew  how  a  her- 
mit crab  feels  when  its  home  pinches,  or  is  out 
of  gear  with  the  world.  And,  too,  Nupee  was 
dead,  and  the  jungle  to  the  south  seemed  to  call 
less  strongly.  So  I  wandered  through  the  old 
house  for  the  last  time,  sniffing  the  agixeable 
odor  of  aged  hypo  still  permeating  the  dark 
room,  re-covering  the  empty  stains  of  skins  and 
traces  of  maps  on  the  walls,  and  re-filling  in  my 
mind  the  vacant  shelves.  The  vampires  had  re- 
turned to  their  chosen  roost,  the  martins  still 
swept  through  the  corridors,  and  as  I  went  down 
the  hill,  a  moriche  oriole  sent  a  silver  shaft  of 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  6 

song  after  me  from  the  sentinel  palm,  just  as 
he  had  greeted  me  four  years  ago. 

Then  I  gathered  about  me  all  the  strange  and 
unnamable  possessions  of  a  tropical  laboratory — 
and  moved.  A  wren  reaches  its  home  after  hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  fast  aerial  travel;  a  hermit 
crab  achieves  a  new  lease  with  a  flip  of  his  tail. 
Between  these  extremes,  and  in  no  less  strange 
a  fashion,  I  moved.  A  great  barge  pushed  off 
from  the  Penal  Settlement,  piled  high  with  my 
zoological  Lares  and  Penates,  and  along  each 
side  squatted  a  line  of  paddlers, — white-garbed 
burglars  and  murderers,  forgers  and  fighters, — 
while  seated  aloft  on  one  of  my  ammunition 
trunks,  with  a  microscope  case  and  a  camera  close 
under  his  watchful  eye,  sat  Case,  King  of  the 
Warders,  the  biggest,  blackest,  and  kindest- 
hearted  man  in  the  world. 

Three  miles  up  river  swept  my  moving-van; 
and  from  the  distance  I  could  hear  the  half- 
whisper — which  was  yet  a  roar — of  Case  as  he 
admonished  his  children.  "Mon,"  he  would  say 
to  a  shirking,  shrinking  coolie  second-story  man, 
*'mon,  do  you  t'ink  dis  the  time  to  sleep?  What 
toughts  have  you  in  your  bosom,  dat  you  delay 
de  Professor's  household?"    And  then  a  chanty 


6  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

would  rise,  the  voice  of  the  leader  quavering  with 
that  wild  rhythm  which  had  come  down  to  him, 
a  vocal  heritage,  through  centuries  of  tom-toms 
and  generations  of  savages  striving  for  emotional 
expression.  But  the  words  were  laughable  or 
pathetic.    I  was  adjured  to 

"Blow  de  mon  down  with  a  bottle  of  rum, 
Oh,  de  mon — mon — ^blow  de  mon  down." 

Or  the  jungle  reechoed  the  edifying  reitera- 
tion of 

"Sardines — and  bread — OH  1 
Sardines — and  bread. 
Sardines — and  bread — AND  ! 
Sardines — :and  bread." 

The  thrill  that  a  whole-lunged  chanty  gives  is 
difficult  to  describe.  It  arouses  some  deep  emo- 
tional response,  as  surely  as  a  military  band,  or 
the  reverberating  cadence  of  an  organ,  or  a  sud- 
denly remembered  theme  of  opera. 

As  my  aquatic  van  drew  up  to  the  sandy 
landing-beach,  I  looked  at  the  motley  array  of 
paddlers,  and  my  mind  went  back  hundreds  of 
years  to  the  first  Spanish  crew  which  landed 
here,  and  I  wondered  whether  these  pirates  of 


THE  LURE  OF  KAKTABO  7 

early  days  had  any  fewer  sins  to  their  credit  than 
Case's  convicts — and  I  doubted  it. 

Across  my  doorstep  a  line  of  leaf-cutting  ants 
was  passing,  each  bearing  aloft  a  huge  bit  of 
green  leaf,  or  a  long  yellow  petal,  or  a  halberd  of 
a  stamen.  A  shadow  fell  over  the  line,  and  1 
looked  up  to  see  an  anthropomorphic  enlarge- 
ment of  the  ants, — the  convicts  winding  up  the 
steep  bank,  each  with  cot,  lamp,  table,  pitcher, 
trunk,  or  aquarium  balanced  on  his  head, — all 
my  possessions  suspended  between  earth  and  sky 
by  the  neck-muscles  of  worthy  sinners.  The  first 
thing  to  be  brought  in  was  a  great  war-bag 
packed  to  bursting,  and  Number  214,  with  eight 
more  years  to  serve,  let  it  slide  down  his  shoul- 
der with  a  grunt — the  self-same  sound  that  I 
have  heard  from  a  Tibetan  woman  carrier,  and 
a  Mexican  peon,  and  a  Japanese  porter, 
all  of  whom  had  in  past  years  toted  this  very 
bag. 

I  led  the  way  up  the  steps,  and  there  in  the 
doorway  was  a  tenant,  one  who  had  already 
taken  possession,  and  who  now  faced  me  and 
the  trailing  line  of  convicts  with  that  dignity, 
poise,  and  perfect  self-possession  which  only  a 
toad,  a  giant  grandmother  of  a  toad,  can  ex- 


8  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

hibit.  I,  and  all  the  law-breakers  who  followed, 
recognized  the  nine  tenths  involved  in  this  in- 
stance and  carefully  stepped  around.  When  the 
heavy  things  began  to  arrive,  I  approached  dif- 
fidently, and  half  suggested,  half  directed  her 
deliberate  hops  toward  a  safer  corner.  My  feel- 
ings toward  her  were  mingled,  but  altogether 
kindly, — as  guest  in  her  home,  I  could  not  but 
treat  her  with  respect, — while  my  scientific  soul 
revelled  in  the  addition  of  Bufo  guttatus  to  the 
fauna  of  this  part  of  British  Guiana.  Whether 
flashing  gold  of  oriole,  or  the  blinking  solemnity 
of  a  great  toad,  it  mattered  little — Kartabo  had 
welcomed  me  with  as  propitious  an  omen  as  had 
Kalacoon. 

Houses  have  distinct  personalities,  either  be- 
queathed to  them  by  their  builders  or  tenants, 
absorbed  from  their  materials,  or  emanating  from 
the  general  environment.  Xeither  the  mind 
which  had  planned  our  Kartabo  bungalow,  nor 
the  hands  which  fashioned  it ;  neither  the  mahog- 
any walls  hewn  from  the  adjoining  jungle,  nor 
the  white-pine  beams  which  had  known  many 
decades  of  snowy  winters — none  of  these  were 
obtrusive.     The  first  had  passed  into  oblivion. 


THE  LURE  OF  K  ART  ABO  9 

the  second  had  been  seasoned  by  sun  and  rain, 
papered  by  lichens,  and  gnawed  and  bored  by 
tiny  wood-folk  into  a  neutral  inconspicuousness 
as  complete  as  an  Indian's  deserted  benab.  The 
wide  verandah  was  open  on  all  sides,  and  from 
the  bamboos  of  the  front  compound  one  looked 
straight  through  the  central  hallway  to  bamboos 
at  the  back.  It  seemed  like  a  happy  accident  of 
the  natural  surroundings,  a  jungle-bound  cave, 
or  the  low  rambling  chambers  of  a  mighty  hol- 
low tree. 

No  thought  of  who  had  been  here  last  came 
to  us  that  first  evening.  We  unlimbered  the 
creaky-legged  cots,  stiff  and  complaining  after 
their  three  years'  rest,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  clean  odor  of  micaceous  showers  of  naphtha- 
line from  long-packed  pillows  and  sheets.  From 
the  rear  came  the  clatter  of  plates,  the  scent  of 
ripe  papaws  and  bananas,  mingled  with  the  smell 
of  the  first  fire  in  a  new  stove.  Then  I  went 
out  and  sat  on  my  own  twelve-foot  bank,  looking 
down  on  the  sandy  beach  and  out  and  over  to 
the  most  beautiful  view  in  the  Guianas.  Do^\ti 
from  the  right  swept  slowly  the  INIazaruni,  and 
from  the  left  the  Cuyuni,  mingling  with  one  wide 
expanse  like  a  great  rounded  lake,  bounded  by 


10  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

solid  jungle,  with  only  Kalacoon  and  the 
Penal  Settlement  as  tiny  breaks  in  the  wall  of 
green. 

The  tide  was  falling,  and  as  I  sat  watching 
the  light  grow  dim,  the  water  receded  slowly, 
and  strange  little  things  floated  past  down- 
stream. And  I  thought  of  the  no  less  real  hu- 
man tide  which  long  years  ago  had  flowed  to  my 
very  feet  and  then  ebbed,  leaving,  as  drift  is  left 
upon  the  sand,  the  convicts,  a  few  scattered  In- 
dians, and  myself.  In  the  peace  and  quiet  of 
this  evening,  time  seemed  a  thing  of  no  especial 
account.  The  great  jungle  trees  might  always 
have  been  lifeless  emerald  water-barriers,  rather 
than  things  of  a  few  centuries'  growth ;  the  ripple- 
less  water  bore  with  equal  disregard  the  last  mora 
seed  which  floated  past,  as  it  had  held  aloft  the 
keel  of  an  unknown  Spanish  ship  three  centuries 
before.  These  men  came  up-river  and  landed  on 
a  little  island  a  few  hundred  yards  from  Kartabo. 
Here  they  built  a  low  stone  wall,  lost  a  few  but- 
tons, coins,  and  bullets,  and  vanished.  Then 
came  the  Dutch  in  sturdy  ships,  cleared  the  islet 
of  everything  except  the  Spanish  wall,  and  built 
them  a  jolly  little  fort  intended  to  command  all 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  11 

the  rivers,  naming  it  Kyk-over-al.  To-day  the 
name  and  a  strong  archway  of  flat  Holland 
bricks  survive. 

In  this  wilderness,  so  wild  and  so  quiet  to-day, 
it  was  amazing  to  think  of  Dutch  soldiers  doing 
sentry  duty  and  practising  w^ith  their  little  bell- 
mouthed  cannon  on  the  islet,  and  of  scores  of 
negro  and  Indian  slaves  working  in  cassava  fields 
all  about  where  I  sat.  And  this  not  fifty  or  a 
hundred  or  two  hundred  years  ago,  but  about 
the  year  1613,  before  John  Smith  had  named 
New  England,  while  the  Hudson  was  still  known 
as  the  Maurice,  before  the  Mayflower  landed  with 
all  our  ancestors  on  board.  For  many  years  the 
story  of  this  settlement  and  of  the  handful  of 
neighboring  sugar-plantations  is  one  of  privateer 
raids,  capture,  torture,  slave-revolts,  disease,  bad 
government,  and  small  profits,  until  we  marvel 
at  the  perseverance  of  these  sturdy  Hollanders. 
From  the  records  still  extant,  we  glean  here  and 
there  amusing  details  of  the  life  which  was  so 
soon  to  falter  and  perish  before  the  onpressing 
jungle.  Exactly  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  one  Hendrik  Rol  was  appointed  comman- 
der of  Kyk-over-al.    He  was  governor,  captain, 


12  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

store-keeper  and  Indian  trader,  and  his  salary 
was  thirty  guilders,  or  about  twelve  dollars,  a 
month — about  what  I  paid  my  cook-boy. 

The  high  tide  of  development  at  Kartabo  came 
two  hundred  and  three  years  ago,  when,  as  we 
read  in  the  old  records,  a  Colony  House  was 
erected  here.  It  went  by  the  name  of  Huis  Naby 
(the  house  near-by),  from  its  situation  near  the 
fort.  Kyk-over-al  was  now  left  to  the  garrison, 
while  the  commander  and  the  civil  servants  lived 
in  the  new  building.  One  of  its  rooms  was  used 
as  a  council  chamber  and  church,  while  the  lower 
floor  was  occupied  by  the  company's  store.  The 
land  in  the  neighborhood  was  laid  out  in  build- 
ing lots,  with  a  view  to  establishing  a  town;  it 
even  went  by  the  name  of  Stad  Cartabo  and  had 
a  tavern  and  two  or  three  small  houses,  but  never 
contained  enough  dwellings  to  entitle  it  to  the 
nam.e  of  town,  or  even  village. 

The  ebb-tide  soon  began,  and  in  1739  Kartabo 
was  deserted,  and  thirty  years  before  the  United 
States  became  a  nation,  the  old  fort  on  Kyk- 
over-al  was  demolished.  The  rivers  and  rolling 
jungle  were  attractive,  but  the  soil  was  poor, 
while  the  noisome  mud-swamps  of  the  coast 
proved  to  be  fertile  and  profitable. 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  13 

Some  fatality  seemed  to  attach  to  all  future 
attempts  in  this  region.  Gold  was  discovered, 
and  diamonds,  and  to-day  the  wilderness  here 
and  there  is  powdering  with  rust  and  wreathing 
with  creeping  tendrils  great  piles  of  machinery. 
Pounds  of  gold  have  been  taken  out  and  hun- 
dreds of  diamonds,  but  thus  far  the  negro  pork- 
knocker,  with  his  pack  and  washing-pan,  is  the 
only  really  successful  miner. 

The  jungle  sends  forth  healthy  trees  tv/o  hun- 
dred feet  in  height,  thriving  for  centuries,  but 
it  reaches  out  and  blights  the  attempts  of  man, 
whether  sisal,  rubber,  cocoa,  or  coffee.  So  far 
the  ebb-tide  has  left  but  two  successful  crops  to 
those  of  us  whose  kismet  has  led  us  hither — 
crime  and  science.  The  concentration  of  negroes, 
cooHes,  Chinese  and  Portuguese  on  the  coast  fur- 
nishes an  unfailing  supply  of  convicts  to  the  set- 
tlement, while  the  great  world  of  life  all  about 
affords  to  the  naturalist  a  bounty  rich  beyond  all 
conception. 

So  here  was  I,  a  grateful  legatee  of  past  fail* 
ures,  shaded  by  magnificent  clumps  of  bamboo, 
brought  from  Java  and  planted  two  or  three  hun- 
dred years  ago  by  the  Dutch,  and  sheltered  by 
a  bungalow  which  had  played  its  part  in  the 


14  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

development  and  relinquishment  of  a  great  gold 
mine. 

For  a  time  we  arranged  and  adjusted  and 
shifted  our  equipment, — tables,  books,  vials, 
guns,  nets,  cameras  and  microscopes, — as  a  dog 
turns  round  and  round  before  it  composes  itself 
to  rest.  And  then  one  day  I  drew  a  long  breath 
and  looked  about,  and  realized  that  I  was  at 
home.  The  newness  began  to  pass  from  my 
little  shelves  and  niches  and  blotters ;  in  the  dark- 
ness I  could  put  my  hand  on  flash  or  watch  or 
gun;  and  in  the  morning  I  settled  snugly  into 
my  woolen  shirt,  khakis,  and  sneakers,  as  if  they 
were  merely  accessory  skin. 

In  the  beginning  we  were  three  white  men  and 
four  servants — the  latter  all  young,  all  individ- 
ual, all  picked  up  by  instinct,  except  Sam,  who 
was  as  inevitable  as  the  tides.  Our  cook  was  too 
good-looking  and  too  athletic  to  last.  He  had 
the  reputation  of  being  the  fastest  sprinter  in 
Guiana,  with  a  record,  so  we  were  solemnly  told, 
of  9%  seconds  for  the  hundred — a  veritable  Mer- 
cury, as  the  last  world's  record  of  which  I  knew 
was  9%.  His  stay  with  us  was  like  the  orbit  of 
some  comets,  which  make  a  single  lap  around  the 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  15 

sun  never  to  return,  and  his  successor  Edward, 
with  unbelievably  large  and  graceful  hands  and 
feet,  was  a  better  cook,  with  the  softest  voice  and 
gentlest  manner  in  the  world. 

But  Bertie  was  our  joy  and  delight.  He  too 
may  be  compared  to  a  star — one  which,  origi- 
nally bright,  becomes  temporarily  dim,  and 
finally  attains  to  greater  magnitude  than  before. 
Ultimately  he  became  a  fixed  ornament  of  our 
culinary  and  taxidermic  cosmic  system,  and  what- 
ever he  did  was  accomplished  with  the  most  re- 
markable contortions  of  Umbs  and  body.  To 
watch  him  rake  was  to  learn  new  anatomical  pos- 
sibilities; when  he  paddled,  a  surgeon  would  be 
moved  to  astonishment;  when  he  caught  butter- 
flies, a  teacher  of  physical  culture  would  not  have 
believed  his  eyes. 

At  night,  when  our  servants  had  sealed  them- 
selves hermetically  in  their  room  in  the  neigh- 
boring thatched  quarters,  and  the  last  squeak 
from  our  cots  had  passed  out  on  its  journey  to 
the  far  distant  goal  of  all  nocturnal  sounds,  we 
began  to  realize  that  our  new  home  held  many 
more  occupants  than  our  three  selves.  Stealthy 
rustlings,  indistinct  scrapings,  and  low  murmurs 
kept  us  interested  for  as  long  as  ten  minutes; 


16  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

and  in  the  morning  we  would  remember  and  won- 
der who  our  fellow  tenants  could  be.  Some 
nights  the  bungalow  seemed  as  full  of  life  as 
the  tiny  French  homes  labeled,  "Hommes  40: 
Chevauoc  8,"  when  the  hastily  estimated  billeting 
possibilities  were  actually  achieved,  and  one  won- 
dered whether  it  were  not  better  to  be  the  cheval 
premier^  than  the  homme  quarantieme. 

For  years  the  bungalow  had  stood  in  sun  and 
rain  unoccupied,  with  a  watchman  and  his  wife, 
named  Hope,  who  lived  close  by.  The  aptness 
of  his  name  was  that  of  the  little  Barbadian  mule- 
tram  which  creeps  through  the  coral-white  streets, 
striving  forever  to  divorce  motion  from  progress 
and  bearing  the  name  Alert.  Hope  had  done 
his  duty  and  watched  the  bungalow.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly still  there  and  nothing  had  been  taken 
from  it ;  but  he  had  received  no  orders  as  to  accre- 
tions, and  so,  to  our  infinite  joy  and  entertain- 
ment, we  found  that  in  many  ways  it  was  not 
only  near  jungle,  it  was  jungle.  I  have  com- 
pared it  with  a  natural  cave.  It  was  also  like  a 
fallen  jungle-log,  and  we  some  of  the  small  folk 
who  shared  its  dark  recesses  with  hosts  of  others. 
Through  the  air,  on  wings  of  skin  or  feathers 


THE  LUHE  OF  KARTABO  17 

or  tissue  membrane;  crawling  or  leaping  by 
night;  burrowing  underground;  gnawing  up 
through  the  great  supporting  posts;  swarming 
up  the  bamboos  and  along  the  pliant  curving 
stems  to  drop  quietly  on  the  shingled  roof; — 
thus  had  the  jungle-life  come  past  Hope's  un- 
seeing eyes  and  found  the  bungalow  worthy  resi- 
dence. 

The  bats  were  with  us  from  fii'st  to  last.  We 
exterminated  one  colony  which  spent  its  inverted 
days  clustered  over  the  center  of  our  supply 
chamber,  but  others  came  immediately  and  dis- 
puted the  ownership  of  the  dark  room.  Little 
chaps  with  great  ears  and  nose-tissue  of  sensi- 
tive skin,  spent  the  night  beneath  my  shelves  and 
chairs,  and  even  my  cot.  They  hunted  at  dusk 
and  again  at  dawn,  slept  in  my  room  and  van- 
ished in  the  day.  Even  for  bats  they  were  fero- 
cious, and  whenever  I  caught  one  in  a  butterfly- 
net,  he  went  into  paroxysms  of  rage,  squealing 
in  angry  passion,  striving  to  bite  my  hand  and, 
failing  that,  chewing  vainly  on  his  own  long  fin- 
gers and  arms.  Their  teeth  were  wonderfully 
intricate  and  seemed  adapted  for  some  very  spe- 
cial diet,  although  beetles  seemed  to  satisfy  those 


18  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

which  I  caught.  For  once,  the  systematist  had 
labeled  them  opportunely,  and  we  never  called 
them  anything  but  Furipterus  horrens. 

In  the  evening,  great  bats  as  large  as  small 
herons  swept  down  the  long  front  gallery  where 
we  worked,  gleaning  as  they  went;  but  the  vam- 
pires were  long  in  coming,  and  for  months  we 
neither  saw  nor  heard  of  one.  Then  they  at- 
tacked our  servants,  and  we  took  heart,  and  night 
after  night  exposed  our  toes,  as  conventionally 
accepted  vampire-bait.  When  at  last  they  found 
that  the  color  of  our  skins  was  no  criterion  of 
dilution  of  blood,  they  came  in  crowds.  For 
three  nights  they  swept  about  us  with  hardly  a 
whisper  of  wings,  and  accepted  either  toe  or 
elbow  or  finger,  or  all  three,  and  the  cots  and 
floor  in  the  morning  looked  like  an  emergency 
hospital  behind  an  active  front.  In  spite  of 
every  attempt  at  keeping  awake,  we  dropped  off 
to  sleep  before  the  bats  had  begun,  and  did  not 
waken  until  they  left.  We  ascertained,  how- 
ever, that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  belief  that 
they  hovered  or  kept  fanning  with  their  wings. 
Instead,  they  settled  on  the  person  with  an  ap- 
preciable flop  and  then  crawled  to  the  desired 
spot. 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  19 

One  night  I  made  a  special  effort  and,  with 
bared  arm,  prepared  for  a  long  vigil.  In  a  few 
minutes  bats  began  to  fan  my  face,  the  wings 
almost  brushing,  but  never  quite  touching  my 
skin.  I  could  distinguish  the  difference  between 
the  smaller  and  the  larger,  the  latter  having  a 
deeper  swish,  deeper  and  longer  drawn-out. 
Their  voices  were  so  high  and  shrill  that  the  sing- 
ing of  the  jungle  crickets  seemed  almost  con- 
tralto in  comparison.  Finally,  I  began  to  feel 
myself  the  focus  of  one  or  more  of  these  winged 
weasels.  The  swishes  became  more  frequent,  the 
returnings  almost  doubling  on  their  track.  Now 
and  then  a  small  body  touched  the  sheet  for  an 
instant,  and  then,  with  a  soft  little  tap,  a  vam- 
pire alighted  on  my  chest.  I  was  half  sitting 
up,  yet  I  could  not  see  him,  for  I  had  found  that 
the  least  hint  of  light  ended  any  possibility  of 
a  visit.  I  breathed  as  quietly  as  1  could,  and 
made  sure  that  both  hands  were  clear.  For  a 
long  time  there  was  no  movement,  and  the  re- 
newed swishes  m.ade  me  suspect  that  the  bat  had 
again  taken  flight.  N^ot  until  I  felt  a  tickling 
on  my  wrist  did  I  know  that  my  visitor  had 
shifted  and,  unerringly,  was  making  for  the  arm 
which  I  had  exposed.     Slowly  it  crept  forward, 


20  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

but  I  hardly  felt  the  pushing  of  the  feet  and 
pulling  of  the  thumbs  as  it  crawled  along.  If 
I  had  been  asleep,  I  should  not  have  awakened. 
It  continued  up  my  forearm  and  came  to  rest 
at  my  elbow.  Here  another  long  period  of  rest, 
and  then  several  short,  quick  shifts  of  body. 
With  my  whole  attention  concentrated  on  my 
elbow,  I  began  to  imagine  various  sensations  as 
my  mind  pictured  the  long,  lancet  tooth  sink- 
ing deep  into  the  skin,  and  the  blood  pumping 
up.  I  even  began  to  feel  the  hot  rush  of  my 
vital  fluid  over  my  arm,  and  then  found  that  I 
had  dozed  for  a  moment  and  that  all  my  sensa- 
tions were  imaginary.  But  soon  a  gentle  tick- 
ling became  apparent,  and,  in  spite  of  putting 
this  out  of  my  mind  and  with  increasing  doubts 
as  to  the  bat  being  still  there,  the  tickhng  con- 
tinued. It  changed  to  a  tingling,  rather  pleasant 
than  otherwise,  like  the  first  stage  of  having  one's 
hand  asleep. 

It  really  seemed  as  if  this  were  the  critical 
time.  Somehow  or  other  the  vampire  was  at 
work  with  no  pain  or  even  inconvenience  to  me, 
and  now  was  the  moment  to  seize  him,  call  for 
a  lantern,  and  solve  his  supersurgical  skill,  the 
exact   method    of   this   vespertilial   anaesthetist. 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  21 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  I  lifted  the  other  hand, 
always  thinking  of  my  elbow,  so  that  I  might 
keep  ail  the  muscles  relaxed.  Very  slowly  it 
approached,  and  with  as  swift  a  motion  as  I  could 
achieve,  I  grasped  at  the  vampire.  I  felt  a 
touch  of  fur  and  I  gripped  a  struggling,  skinny 
wing;  there  came  a  single  nip  of  teeth,  and  the 
wing-tip  slipped  through  my  fingers.  I  could 
detect  no  trace  of  blood  by  feeling,  so  turned  over 
and  went  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  I  found  a 
tiny  scratch,  with  the  skin  barely  broken;  and, 
heartily  disappointed,  I  realized  that  my  tick- 
ling and  tingling  had  been  the  preliminary  symp- 
toms of  the  operation. 

Marvelous  moths  which  slipped  into  the  bun- 
galow like  shadows ;  pet  tarantulas ;  golden-eyed 
gongasocka  geckos;  automatic,  house-cleaning 
ants ;  opossums  large  and  small ;  tiny  lizards  who 
had  tongues  in  place  of  eyelids;  wasps  who  had 
doorsteps  and  watched  the  passing  from  their 
windows; — all  these  were  intimates  of  my  lab- 
oratory table,  whose  riches  must  be  spread  else- 
where ;  but  the  sounds  of  the  bungalow  were  com- 
mon to  the  whole  structure. 

One  of  the  first  things  I  noticed,  as  I  lay  on 
my  cot,  was  the  new  voice  of  the  wind  at  night. 


22  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Now  and  then  I  caught  a  famihar  sound, — faint, 
but  not  to  be  forgotten, — the  clattering  of  palm 
fronds.  But  this  came  from  Eoomboom  Point, 
fifty  yards  away  (an  out  jutting  of  rocks  where 
we  had  secured  our  first  giant  catfish  of  that 
name) .  The  steady  rhythm  of  sound  which  rose 
and  fell  with  the  breeze  and  sifted  into  my  win- 
dow with  the  moonbeams,  was  the  gentlest 
shussssssing,  a  fine  whispering,  a  veritable  fern 
of  a  sound,  high  and  crisp  and  wholly  apart  from 
the  moaning  around  the  eaves  which  arose  at 
stronger  gusts.  It  brought  to  mind  the  steep 
mountain-sides  of  Pahang,  and  windy  nights 
which  presaged  great  storms  in  high  passes  of 
Yunnan. 

But  these  wonder  times  lived  only  through 
memory  and  were  misted  with  intervening  years, 
while  it  came  upon  me  during  early  nights,  again 
and  again,  that  this  was  Now,  and  that  into  the 
hour-glass  neck  of  Now  was  headed  a  maelstrom 
of  untold  riches  of  the  Future — minutes  and 
hours  and  sapphire  days  ahead — a  Now  which 
was  wholly  unconcerned  with  leagues  and  liquor, 
with  strikes  and  salaries.  So  I  turned  over  with 
the  peace  which  passes  all  telling — the  forecast 
of  delving  into  the  private  affairs  of  birds  and 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  23 

monkeys,  of  great  butterflies  and  strange  frogs 
and  flowers.  The  seeping  wind  had  led  my  mind 
on  and  on  from  memory  and  distant  sorrows  to 
thoughts  of  the  joy  of  labor  and  life. 

At  half-past  five  a  kiskadee  shouted  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs  from  the  bamboos,  but  he  prob- 
ably had  a  nightmare,  for  he  went  to  sleep  and 
did  not  wake  again  for  half-an-hour.  The  final 
swish  of  a  bat's  wing  came  to  my  ear,  and  the 
light  of  a  fog-dimmed  day  slowly  tempered  the 
darkness  among  the  dusty  beams  and  rafters. 
From  high  overhead  a  sprawling  tarantula  tossed 
aside  the  shriveled  remains  of  his  night's  banquet, 
the  emerald  cuirass  and  empty  mahogany  helmet 
of  a  long-horned  beetle,  which  eddied  downward 
and  landed  upon  my  sheet. 

Immediately  around  the  bungalow  the  bam- 
boos held  absolute  sway,  and  v/hile  forming  a 
very  tangible  link  betv/een  the  roof  and  the  out- 
liers of  the  jungle,  yet  no  plant  could  obtain 
foothold  beneath  their  shade.  They  withheld 
light,  and  the  mat  of  myriads  of  slender  leaves 
killed  off  every  sprouting  thing.  This  was  of 
the  utmost  value  to  us,  providing  shade,  clear 
passage  to  every  breeze,  and  an  absolute  dearth 
of  flies  and  mosquitoes.     We  found  that  the 


24  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

clumps  needed  clearing  of  old  stems,  and  for  two 
days  we  indulged  in  the  strangest  of  weeding^'. 
The  dead  stems  were  as  hard  as  stone  outside,  but 
the  ax  bit  through  easily,  and  they  were  so  light 
that  we  could  easily  carry  enormous  ones,  which 
made  us  feel  like  giants,  though,  when  I  thought 
of  them  in  their  true  botanical  relationship,  I 
dwarfed  in  imagination  as  quickly  as  Alice,  to  a 
pigmy  tottering  under  a  blade  of  grass.  It  was 
like  a  Brobdingnagian  game  of  jack-straws,  as 
the  cutting  or  prying  loose  of  a  single  stem  often 
brought  several  others  crashing  to  earth  in  unex- 
pected places,  keeping  us  running  and  dodging  to 
avoid  their  terrific  impact.  The  fall  of  these 
great  masts  awakened  a  roaring  swish  ending  in 
a  hollow  rattling,  wholly  unlike  the  crash  and 
dull  boom  of  a  solid  trunk.  When  we  finished 
with  each  clump,  it  stood  as  a  perfect  giant  bou* 
quet,  looking,  at  a  distance,  like  a  tuft  of  green 
feathery  plumes,  with  the  bungalow  snuggled 
beneath  as  a  toadstool  is  overshadowed  bv  ferns. 
Scores  of  the  homes  of  small  folk  were  uncov- 
ered by  our  weeding  out — wasps,  termites,  ants, 
bees,  wood-roaches,  centipedes;  and  occasionally 
a  small  snake  or  great  solemn  toad  came  out  from 
the  debris  at  the  roots,  the  latter  blinking  and 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  25 

swelling  indignantly  at  this  sudden  interruption 
of  his  siesta.  In  a  strong  wind  the  stems  bent 
and  swayed,  thrashing  off  every  imperfect  leaf 
and  sweeping  low  across  the  roof,  with  strange 
scrapings  and  bamboo  mutter ings.  But  they 
hardly  ever  broke  and  fell.  In  the  evening,  how- 
ever, and  in  the  night,  after  a  terrific  storm,  a 
sharp,  unexpected  rat-tat-tat-tat ,  exactly  like  a 
machine-gun,  would  smash  in  on  the  silence,  and 
two  or  three  of  the  great  grasses,  which  per- 
haps sheltered  Dutchmen  generations  ago,  would 
snap  and  fall.  But  the  Indians  and  Bovianders 
who  lived  nearby,  knew  this  was  no  wind,  nor  yet 
weakness  of  stem,  but  Sinclair,  who  was  abroad 
and  who  was  cutting  down  the  bamboos  for  his 
own  secret  reasons.  He  was  evil,  and  it  was  well 
to  be  indoors  with  all  windows  closed;  but  fur- 
ther details  were  lacking,  and  we  were  driven  to 
clothe  this  imperfect  ghost  with  history  and  habits 
of  our  own  devising. 

The  birds  and  other  inhabitants  of  the  bam- 
boos,  were  those  of  the  more  open  jungle, — flocks 
drifting  through  the  clumps,  monkeys  occasion- 
ally swinging  from  one  to  another  of  the  elastic 
tips,  while  toucans  came  and  went.  At  evening, 
■ftocks  of  parrakeets  and  great  black  orioles  came 


26  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  roost,  courting  the  safety  which  they  had  come 
to  associate  with  the  clearings  of  human  pioneers 
in  the  jungle.     A  box  on  a  bamboo  stalk  drew 
forth  joyous  hymns  of  praise  from  a  pair  of  little 
God-birds,  as  the  natives  call  the  house-wrens, 
who    straightway    collected    all   the    grass    and 
feathers  in  the  world,  stuffed  them  into  the  tiny 
chamber,  and  after  a  time  performed  the  ever- 
marvelous  feat  of  producing  three  replicas  of 
themselves    from    this    trash-filled    box.      The 
father-parent  was  one  concentrated  mite  of  song, 
with  just  enough  feathers  for  wings  to  enable 
him  to  pursue  caterpillars  and  grasshoppers  as 
raw  material  for  the  production  of  more  song. 
He  sang  at  the  prospect  of  a  home ;  then  he  sang 
to  attract  and  win  a  mate;  more  song  at  the  joy 
of  finding  wonderful  grass  and  feathers;  again 
melody  to  beguile  his  mate,  patiently  giving  the 
hours  and  days  of  her  body-warmth  in  instinct- 
compelled  belief  in  the  future.     He  sang  while 
he  took  his  turn  at  sitting ;  then  he  nearly  choked 
to  death  trying  to  sing  while  stuffing  a  bug  down 
a  nestling's  throat ;  finally,  he  sang  at  the  end  of  a 
perfect  nesting  season;  again,  in  hopes  of  per- 
suading his  mate  to  repeat  it  all,  and  this  failing, 
sang  in  chorus  in  the  wren  quintette — I  hoped,  in 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  27 

gratitude  to  us.  At  least  from  April  to  Septem- 
ber he  sang  every  day,  and  if  my  interpretation 
be  anthropomorphic,  why,  so  much  the  better  for 
anthropomorphism.  At  any  rate,  before  we  left, 
all  five  wrens  sat  on  a  little  shrub  and  imitated 
the  morning  stars,  and  our  hearts  went  out  to 
the  little  virile  featherlings,  who  had  lost  none  of 
their  enthusiasm  for  life  in  this  tropical  jungle. 
Their  one  demand  in  this  great  wilderness  was 
man's  presence,  being  never  found  in  the  jungle 
except  in  an  inhabited  clearing,  or,  as  I  have 
found  them,  clinging  hopefully  to  the  vanishing 
ruins  of  a  dead  Indian's  henab,  waiting  and  sing- 
ing in  perfect  faith,  until  the  jungle  had  crept 
over  it  all  and  they  were  compelled  to  give  up 
and  set  out  in  search  of  another  home,  within 
sound  of  human  voices. 

Bare  as  our  leaf-carpeted  bamboo-glade  ap- 
peared, yet  a  select  little  company  found  life 
worth  living  there.  The  dry  sand  beneath  the 
house  was  covered  with  the  pits  of  ant-lions,  and 
as  we  watched  them  month  after  month,  they 
seemed  to  have  more  in  common  with  the  grains 
of  quartz  which  composed  their  cosmos  than  with 
the  organic  world.  By  day  or  night  no  ant  or 
other  edible  thing  seemed  ever  to  approach  or  be 


28  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

entrapped ;  and  month  after  month  there  was  no 
sign  of  change  to  imago.  Yet  each  pit  held  a 
fat,  enthusiastic  inmate,  ready  at  a  touch  to  turn 
steam-shovel,  battering-ram,  bayonet,  and  gour- 
mand. Among  the  first  thousand-and-one  mys- 
teries of  Kartabo  I  give  a  place  to  the  source  of 
nourishment  of  the  sub-bungalow  ant-lions. 

Walking  one  day  back  of  the  house,  I  observed 
a  number  of  small  holes,  with  a  little  shining  head 
just  visible  in  each,  which  vanished  at  my  ap- 
proach. Looking  closer,  I  was  surprised  to  find 
a  colony  of  tropical  doodle-bugs.  Straightway  I 
chose  a  grass-stem  and  squatting,  began  fishing 
as  I  had  fished  many  years  ago  in  the  southern 
states.  Soon  a  nibble  and  then  an  angry  pull, 
and  I  jerked  out  the  irate  little  chap.  He  had  the 
same  naked  bumpy  body  and  the  fierce  head,  and 
when  two  or  three  were  put  together,  they  fought 
blindly  and  with  the  ferocity  of  bulldogs. 

To  write  of  pets  is  as  bad  taste  as  to  write  in 
diary  form,  and,  besides,  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  have  no  pets  on  this  expedition.  They  were  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  and  a  source  of  distraction 
from  work  while  they  were  alive ;  and  one's  heart 
was  wrung  and  one's  concentration  disturbed  at 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  29 

their  death.  But  Kib  came  one  day,  brought  by 
a  tmy  copper-bronze  Indian.  He  looked  at  me, 
touched  me  tentatively  with  a  mobile  little  paw, 
and  my  firm  resolution  melted  away.  A  young 
coati-mundi  cannot  sit  man-fashion  like  a  bear- 
cub,  nor  is  he  as  fuzzy  as  a  kitten  or  as  helpless 
as  a  puppy,  but  he  has  ways  of  winning  to  the  hu- 
man heart,  past  all  obstacles. 

The  small  Indian  thought  that  three  shillings 
would  be  a  fair  exchange;  but  I  knew  the  par 
value  of  such  stock,  and  Kib  changed  hands  for 
three  bits.  A  week  later  a  thousand  shillings 
would  have  seemed  cheap  to  his  new  master.  A 
coati-mundi  is  a  tropical,  arboreal  raccoon  of 
sorts,  with  a  long,  ever-wriggling  snout,  sharp 
teeth,  eyes  that  twinkle  with  humor,  and  clawed 
paws  which  are  more  skilful  than  many  a  fingered 
hand.  By  the  scientists  of  the  world  he  is  ad- 
dressed as  Nasua  nasua  nasua — which  lays  itself 
open  to  the  twin  ambiguity  of  stuttering  Latin, 
or  the  echoes  of  a  Princetonian  football  yell. 
The  natural  histories  call  him  coati-mundi,  while 
the  Indian  has  by  far  the  best  of  it,  with  the  ring- 
ing, climactic  syllables,  Kibihee!  And  so,  in  the 
case  of  a  being  who  has  received  much  more  than 
his  share  of  vitality,  it  was  altogether  fitting  to 


30  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

shorten  this  to  Kib — Dunsany's  giver  of  life 
upon  the  earth. 

My  heart's  desire  is  to  run  on  and  tell  many 
paragraphs  of  Kib;  but  that,  as  I  have  said, 
would  be  bad  taste,  which  is  one  form  of  immo- 
rality. For  in  such  things  sentiment  runs  too 
closely  parallel  to  sentimentality, — moderation 
becomes  maudlinism, — and  one  enters  the  caste 
of  those  who  tell  anecdotes  of  children,  and  the 
latest  symptoms  of  their  physical  ills.  And  the 
deeper  one  feels  the  joys  of  friendship  with  in- 
dividual small  folk  of  the  jungle,  the  more  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  convey  them  to  others.  And  so  it  is 
not  of  the  tropical  mammal  coati-mundi,  nor  even 
of  the  humorous  Kib  that  I  think,  but  of  the  soul 
of  him  galloping  up  and  down  his  slanting  log, 
of  his  little  inner  ego,  which  changed  from  a  wild 
thing  to  one  who  would  hurl  himself  from  any 
height  or  distance  into  a  lap,  confident  that  we 
would  save  his  neck,  welcome  him,  and  waste 
good  time  playing  the  game  which  he  invented,  of 
seeing  whether  we  could  touch  his  little  cold  snout 
before  he  hid  it  beneath  his  curved  arms. 

So,  in  spite  of  my  resolves,  our  bamboo  groves 
became  the  homes  of  numerous  little  souls  of  wild 
folk,  whose  individuality  shone  out  and  domi- 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  31 

nated  the  less  important  incidental  casement, 
whether  it  happened  to  be  feathers,  or  fur,  or 
scales.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  the  Adam 
in  one  comes  to  the  surface  in  the  matter  of  names 
for  pets.  I  know  exactly  the  uncomfortable 
feeling  which  must  have  perturbed  the  heart  of 
that  pioneer  of  nomenclaturists,  to  be  plumped 
down  in  the  midst  of  "the  greatest  aggregation 
of  animals  ever  assembled"  before  the  time  of 
Noah,  and  to  be  able  to  speak  of  them  only  as  tJtis 
or  that^  he  or  she.  So  we  felt  when  inundated  by 
a  host  of  pets.  It  is  easy  to  speak  of  the  species 
by  the  lawful  Latin  or  Greek  name ;  we  mention 
the  specimen  on  our  laboratory  table  by  its  com- 
mon natural-history  appellation.  But  the  individ- 
ual who  touches  our  pity,  or  concern,  or  affec- 
tion, demands  a  special  title — usually  absurdly 
inapt. 

Soon,  in  the  bamboo  glade  about  our  bungalow, 
ten  little  jungle  friends  came  to  live;  and  to  us 
they  will  always  be  Kib  and  Gawain,  George  and 
Gregory,  Robert  and  Grandmother,  Raoul  and 
Pansy,  Jennie  and  Jellicoe. 

Gawain  was  not  a  double  personality — he  was 
an  intermittent  reincarnation,  vibrating  between 
the  inorganic  and  the  essence  of  vitality.    In  a 


32  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

reasonable  scheme  of  earthly  things  he  filled  the 
niche  of  a  giant  green  tree-frog,  and  one  of  us 
seemed  to  remember  that  the  Knight  Gawain  was 
enamored  of  green,  and  so  we  dubbed  him.  For 
the  hours  of  daylight  Gawain  preferred  the  role 
of  a  hunched-up  pebble  of  malachite;  or  if  he 
could  find  a  leaf,  he  drew  eighteen  purple  vacuum 
toes  beneath  him,  veiled  his  eyes  with  opalescent 
lids,  and  slipped  from  the  mineral  to  the  vege- 
table kingdom,  flattened  by  masterly  shading 
which  filled  the  hollows  and  leveled  the  bumps; 
and  the  leaf  became  more  of  a  leaf  than  it  had 
been  before  Gawain  was  merged  with  it. 

Night,  or  hunger,  or  the  merciless  tearing  of 
sleep  from  his  soul  wrought  magic  and  trans- 
formed him  into  a  glowing,  jeweled  specter.  He 
sprouted  toes  and  long  legs;  he  rose  and  inflated 
his  sleek  emerald  frog- form ;  his  sides  blazed  forth 
a  mother-of-pearl  waist-coat — a  myriad  mosaics 
of  pink  and  blue  and  salmon  and  mauve;  and 
from  nowhere  if  not  from  the  very  depths  of  his 
throat,  there  slowly  rose  twin  globes, — great  eyes, 
— which  stood  above  the  flatness  of  his  head,  as 
mosques  above  an  oriental  city.  Gone  were  the 
neutralizing  lids,  and  in  their  place,  strange  up- 
right pupils  surrounded  with  vermilion  lines  and 


THE  LURE  OF  KARTABO  33 

curves  and  dots,  like  characters  of  ancient  illumi- 
nated Persian  script.  And  with  these  appalling 
eyes  Gawain  looked  at  us,  with  these  unreal, 
crimson-flecked  globes  staring  absurdly  from  an 
expressionless  emerald  mask,  he  contemplated 
roaches  and  small  grasshoppers,  and  correctly  es- 
timated their  distance  and  activity.  We  never 
thought  of  demanding  friendship,  or  a  hint  of 
his  voice,  or  common  froggish  activities  from 
Gawain.  We  were  content  to  visit  him  now  and 
then,  to  arouse  him,  and  then  leave  him  to  disin- 
carnate  his  vertebral  outward  phase  into  chloro- 
phyll or  lifeless  stone.  To  muse  upon  his  court- 
ship or  emotions  was  impossible.  His  life  had  a 
feeling  of  sphinx-like  duration — Gawain  as  a 
tadpole  was  unthinkable.  He  seemed  ageless, 
unreal,  wonderfully  beautiful,  and  wholly  inex- 
plicable. 


II 

A  JUNGLE  CLEARING 

Within  six  degrees  of  the  Equator,  shut  in 
by  jungle,  on  a  cloudless  day  in  mid- August,  I 
found  a  comfortable  seat  on  a  slope  of  sandy  soil 
sown  with  grass  and  weeds  in  the  clearing  back 
of  Kartabo  laboratory.  I  was  shaded  only  by  a 
few  leaves  of  a  low  walnut-like  sapling,  yet  there 
was  not  the  slightest  hint  of  oppressive  heat.  It 
might  have  been  a  warm  August  day  in  New 
England  or  Canada,  except  for  the  softness  of 
the  air. 

In  my  little  cleared  glade  there  was  no  plant 
which  would  be  wholly  out  of  place  on  a  New 
England  country  hillside.  With  debotanized 
vision  I  saw  foliage  of  sumach,  elm,  hickory, 
peach,  and  alder,  and  the  weeds  all  about  were 
as  familiar  as  those  of  any  New  Jersey  meadow. 
The  most  abundant  flowers  were  Mazaruni 
daisies,  cheerful  little  pale  primroses,  and  close 
to  me,  fairly  overhanging  the  paper  as  I  wrote, 
was  the  spindling  button-weed,  a  wanderer  from 

34 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  35 

the  States,  with  its  clusters  of  tiny  white  blos- 
soms bouqueted  in  the  bracts  of  its  leaves. 

A  few  yards  down  the  hillside  was  a  clump  of 
real  friends — the  rich  green  leaves  of  vervain, 
that  humble  little  weed,  sacred  in  turn  to  the 
Druids,  the  Romans,  and  the  early  Christians, 
and  now  brought  inadvertently  in  some  long-past 
time,  in  an  overseas  shipment,  and  holding  its 
own  in  this  breathing-space  of  the  jungle.    I  was 
so  interested  by  this  discovery  of  a  superficial 
northern  flora,  that  I  began  to  w^atch  for  other 
forms  of  temperate-appearing  life,  and  for  a  long 
time  my  ear  found  nothing  out  of  harmony  with 
the  plants.     The  low  steady  hum  of  abundant 
insects  was  so  constant  that  it  required  conscious 
effort  to  disentangle  it  from  silence.    Every  few 
seconds  there  arose  the  cadence  of  a  passing  bee 
or  fly,  the  one  low  and  deep,  the  other  shrill  and 
penetrating.     And  now,  just  as  I  had  become 
wholly  absorbed  in  this  fascinating  game, — the 
kind  of  game  which  may  at  any  moment  take  a 
worth-while  scientific  turn, — it  all  dimmed  and 
the  entire  picture  shifted  and  changed.    I  doubt 
if  any  one  who  has  been  at  a  modern  battle-front 
can  Ions:  sit  with  closed  eves  in  a  midsummer 
meadow  and  not  have  his  blood  leap  as  scene  after 


36  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

scene  is  brought  back  to  him.  Three  bees  and  a 
fly  winging  their  way  past,  with  the  rise  and  fall 
of  their  varied  hums,  were  sufficient  to  renew 
vividly  for  me  the  blackness  of  night  over  the 
sticky  mud  of  Souville,  and  to  cloud  for  a  mo- 
ment the  scent  of  clover  and  dying  grass,  with 
that  terrible  sickly  sweet  odor  of  human  flesh  in 
an  old  shell-hole.  In  such  unexpected  ways  do 
we  link  peace  and  war — suspending  the  greatest 
weights  of  memory,  imagination,  and  visualiza- 
tion on  the  slenderest  cobwebs  of  sound,  odor, 
and  color. 

But  again  my  bees  became  but  bees — great, 
jolly,  busy  yellow-and-black  fellows,  who  blun- 
dered about  and  squeezed  into  blossoms  many 
sizes  too  small  for  them.  Cicadas  tuned  up, 
clearing  their  drum-heads,  tightening  their  keys, 
and  at  last  rousing  into  the  full  swing  of  their 
ecstatic  theme.  And  my  relaxed,  uncritical  mind 
at  present  recorded  no  difference  between  the 
sound  and  that  which  was  vibrated  from  northern 
maples.  The  tamest  bird  about  me  was  a  big 
yellow-breasted  white-throated  flycatcher,  and  I 
had  seen  this  Melancholy  Tyrant,  as  his  technical 
name  describes  him,  in  such  distant  lands  that  he 
fitted  into  the  picture  without  effort. 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  37 

White  butterflies  flitted  past,  then  a  yellow  one, 
and  finally  a  real  Monarch.  In  my  boy-land, 
smudgy  specimens  of  this  were  pinned,  earnestly 
but  asymetrically,  in  cigar-boxes,  under  the  title 
of  Danais  archippus.  At  present  no  reputable 
entomologist  would  think  of  calling  it  other  than 
Anosia  pleocippus,  nor  should  I;  but  the  particu- 
lar thrill  which  it  gave  to-day  was  that  this  self- 
same species  should  wander  along  at  this  mo- 
ment to  mosaic  into  my  boreal  muse. 

After  a  little  time,  with  only  the  hum  of  the 
bees  and  the  staccato  cicadas,  a  double  deceit  was 
perpetrated,  one  which  my  sentiment  of  the  mo- 
ment seized  upon  and  rejoiced  in,  but  at  which 
my  mind  had  to  conceal  a  smile  and  turn  its  con- 
sciousness quickly  elsewhere,  to  prevent  an  obtru- 
sive reality  from  dimming  this  last  addition  to 
the  picture.  The  gentle,  unmistakable,  velvet 
warble  of  a  bluebird  came  over  the  hillside,  again 
and  again;  and  so  completely  absorbed  and  lulled 
was  I  by  the  gradual  obsession  of  being  in  the 
midst  of  a  northern  sce^e,  that  the  sound  caused 
not  the  slightest  excitement,  even  internally  and 
mentally.  But  the  sympathetic  spirit  who  was 
directing  this  geographic  burlesque  overplayed, 
and  followed  the  soft  curve  of  audible  wistfulness 


38  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

with  an  actual  bluebird  which  looped  across  the 
open  space  in  front.  The  spell  was  broken  for  a 
moment,  and  my  subconscious  autocrat  thrust 
into  realization  the  instantaneous  report — appar- 
ent blue-bird  call  is  the  note  of  a  small  flycatcher 
and  the  momentary  vision  was  not  even  a  moun- 
tain bkiebird  but  a  red-breasted  blue  chatterer! 
So  I  shut  my  eyes  very  quickly  and  listened  to 
the  soft  calls,  which  alone  would  have  deceived 
the  closest  analyzer  of  bird  songs.  And  so  for  a 
little  while  longer  I  still  held  my  picture  intact, 
a  magic  scape,  a  hundred  yards  square  and  an 
hour  long,  set  in  the  heart  of  the  Guiana  jungle. 
And  when  at  last  I  had  to  desert  Canada,  and 
relinquish  New  Jersey,  I  slipped  only  a  few  hun- 
dred miles  southward.  For  another  twenty  min- 
utes I  clung  to  Virginia,  for  the  enforced  shift 
was  due  to  a  great  Papilio  butterfly  which 
stopped  nearby  and  which  I  captured  with  a 
lucky  sweep  of  my  net.  My  first  thought  was  of 
the  Orange-tree  Swallow-tail,  nee  Papilio  cres- 
phontes.  Then  the  first  lizards  appeared,  and  by 
no  stretch  of  my  willing  imagination  could  T  pre- 
tend that  they  were  newts,  or  fit  the  little  emerald 
scales  into  a  New  England  pasture.  And  so  I 
chose  for  a  time  to  live  again  among  the  Virgin- 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  39 

ian  butterflies  and  mockingbirds,  the  wild  roses 
and  the  jasmine,  and  the  other  splendors  of  mem- 
ory which  a  single  butterfly  had  unloosed. 

As  I  looked  about  me,  I  saw  the  flowers  and 
detected  their  fragrance;  I  heard  the  hum  of  bees 
and  the  contented  chirp  of  well-fed  birds ;  I  mar- 
veled at  great  butterflies  flapping  so  slowly  that 
it  seemed  as  if  they  must  have  cheated  gravita- 
tion in  some  subtle  way  to  win  such  lightness  and 
disregard  of  earth-pull.  I  heard  no  ugly  murmur 
of  long  hours  and  low  wages ;  the  closest  scrutiny 
revealed  no  strikes  or  internal  clamorings  about 
wrongs;  and  I  unconsciously  relaxed  and 
breathed  more  deeply  at  the  thought  of  this  na- 
ture world,  moving  so  smoothly,  with  directness 
and  simplicity  as  apparently  achieved  ideals. 

Then  I  ceased  this  superficial  glance  and 
looked  deeper,  and  without  moralizing  or  drag- 
ging in  far-fetched  similes  or  warnings,  tried  to 
comprehend  one  fundamental  reality  in  wild  na- 
ture— the  universal  acceptance  of  opportunity. 
From  this  angle  it  is  quite  unimportant  whether 
one  believes  in  vitalism  (which  is  vitiating  to  our 
"will  to  prove"),  or  in  mechanism  (whose  name 
itself  is  a  symbol  of  ignorance,  or  deficient  vocab- 


40  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

ulary,  or  both) .  Evolution  has  left  no  chink  or 
crevice  unfilled,  unoccupied,  no  probability  un- 
tried, no  possibility  unachieved. 

The  nearest  weed  suggested  this  trend  of 
thought  and  provided  all  I  could  desire  of  ex- 
amples ;  but  the  thrill  of  discovery  and  the  artistic 
delight  threatened  to  disturb  for  the  time  my 
solemn  application  of  these  ponderous  truisms. 
The  weed  alongside  had  had  a  prosperous  life, 
and  its  leaves  were  fortunate  in  the  unadulterated 
sun  and  rain  to  which  they  had  access.  At  the 
summit  all  was  focusing  for  the  consummation  of 
existence:  the  little  blossoms  would  soon  open 
and  have  their  one  chance.  To  all  the  winds  of 
heaven  they  would  fling  out  wave  upon  wave  of 
delicate  odor,  besides  enlisting  a  subtle  form  of 
vibration  and  refusing  to  absorb  the  pink  light 
• — thereby  enhancing  the  prospects  of  insect  vis- 
itors, on  whose  coming  the  very  existence  of  this 
race  of  weeds  depended. 

Every  leaf  showed  signs  of  attack:  scallops 
cut  out,  holes  bored,  stains  of  fungi,  wreaths  of 
moss,  and  the  insidious  mazes  of  leaf-miners. 
But,  like  an  old-fashioned  ship  of  the  line  which 
wins  to  port  with  the  remnants  of  shot-ridden 
sails,  the  plant  had  paid  toll  bravely,  although  un- 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  41 

able  to  defend  itself  or  protect  its  tissues ;  and  if 
I  did  not  now  destroy  it,  which  I  should  assuredly 
not  do,  this  weed  would  justify  its  place  as  a 
worthy  link  in  the  chain  of  numberless  genera- 
tions, past  and  to  come. 

More  complex,  clever,  subtle  methods  of  at- 
tack transcended  those  of  the  mere  devourer  of 
leaf -tissue,  as  radically  as  an  inventor  of  most  in- 
tricate instruments  differs  from  the  plodding 
tiller  of  the  soil.  In  the  center  of  one  leaf,  less 
disfigured  than  some  of  its  fellows,  I  perceived 
four  tiny  ivory  spheres,  a  dozen  of  which  might 
rest  comfortably  within  the  length  of  an  inch. 
To  my  eye  they  looked  quite  smooth,  although  a 
steady  oblique  gaze  revealed  hints  of  concentric 
lines.  Before  the  times  of  Leeuwenhoek  I  should 
perhaps  have  been  unable  to  see  more  than  this, 
although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  those  happy-go- 
lucky  days  my  ancestors  would  doubtless  have 
trounced  me  soundly  for  wasting  my  time  on  such 
useless  and  ungodly  things  as  butterfly  eggs.  I 
thought  of  the  coming  night  when  I  should  sit 
and  strain  with  all  my  might,  striving,  without 
the  use  of  my  powerful  stereos,  to  separate  from 
translucent  mist  of  gases  the  denser  nucleus  of 
the  mighty  cosmos  in  Andromeda.    And  I  alter- 


42  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

nately  bemoaned  my  human  limitation  of  vision, 
and  rejoiced  that  I  could  focus  clearly,  both  upon 
my  butterfly  eggs  a  foot  away,  and  upon  the 
spiral  nebula  swinging  through  the  ether  perhaps 
four  hundred  and  fifty  light-years  from  the  earth. 
I  unswung  my  pocket-lens, — the  infant  of  the 
microscope, — and  my  whole  being  followed  my 
eyes ;  the  trees  and  sky  were  eclipsed,  and  I  hov- 
ered in  mid-air  over  four  glistening  Mars-like 
planets — seamed  with  radiating  canals,  half  in 
shadow  from  the  slanting  sunlight,  and  sil- 
houetted against  pure  emerald.  The  sculpturing 
w^as  exquisite.  Near  the  north  poles  which 
pointed  obliquely  in  my  direction,  the  lines  broke 
up  into  beads,  and  the  edges  of  these  were  frilled 
and  scalloped;  and  here  again  my  vision  failed 
and  demanded  still  stronger  binoculars.  Here 
was  indeed  complexity:  a  butterfly,  one  of  those 
black  beauties,  splashed  w^ith  jasper  and  beryl, 
hovering  nearby,  with  taste  only  for  liquid 
nectar,  yet  choosing  a  little  weed  devoid  of  flower 
or  fruit  on  which  to  deposit  her  quota  of  eggs. 
She  neither  turned  to  look  at  their  beauties  nor 
trusted  another  batch  to  this  plant.  Somehow, 
someway,  her  caterpillar  wormhood  had  carried, 
through  the  mummified  chrysalid  and  the  rem- 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  43 

carnation  of  her  present  form,  knowledge  of  an 
earlier,  infinitely  coarser  diet. 

Together  with  the  pure  artistic  jo}^  which  w^as 
stirred  at  the  sight  of  these  tiny  ornate  globes, 
there  was  aroused  a  realization  of  complexity,  of 
helpless,  ignorant  achievement;  the  butterfly 
blindly  pausing  in  her  flower-to-flower  fluttering 
— a  pause  as  momentous  to  her  race  as  that  of  the 
slow  daily  and  monthly  progress  of  the  weed's 
struggle  to  fruition. 

I  took  a  final  glance  at  the  eggs  before  return- 
ing to  my  own  larger  world,  and  I  detected  a  new 
complication,  one  which  left  me  with  feelings  too 
involved  for  calm  scientific  contemplation.  As 
if  a  Martian  should  suddenly  become  visible  to 
an  astronomer,  I  found  that  one  of  the  egg 
planets  w^as  inhabited.  Perched  upon  the  sum- 
mit— quite  near  the  north  pole — was  an  insect,  a 
wasp,  much  smaller  than  the  egg  itself.  And  as 
I  looked,  I  saw  it  at  the  climax  of  its  diminutive 
life;  for  it  reared  up,  resting  on  the  tips  of  two 
legs  and  the  iridescent  wings,  and  sunk  its  ovipos- 
itor deep  into  the  crystalline  surface.  As  I 
watched,  an  egg  was  deposited,  about  the  latitude 
of  New  York,  and  with  a  tremor  the  tiny  wasp 
withdrew  its  instrument  and  rested. 


44  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

On  the  same  leaf  were  casually  blown  specks 
of  dust,  larger  than  the  quartette  of  eggs.  To 
the  plant  the  cluster  weighed  nothmg,  meant 
nothing  more  than  the  dust.  Yet  a  moment  be- 
fore they  contained  the  latent  power  of  great 
harm  to  the  future  growth  of  the  weed — four 
lusty  caterpillars  would  work  from  leaf  to  leaf 
with  a  rapidity  and  destructiveness  which  might, 
even  at  the  last,  have  sapped  the  maturing  seeds. 
Now,  on  a  smaller  scale,  but  still  within  the  realm 
of  insect  life,  all  was  changed — the  plant  was  safe 
once  more  and  no  caterpillars  would  emerge. 
For  the  wasp  went  from  sphere  to  sphere  and 
inoculated  every  one  with  the  promise  of  its  kind. 
The  plant  bent  slightly  in  a  breath  of  wind,  and 
knew  nothing;  the  butterfly  was  far  away  to  my 
left,  deep-drinking  in  a  cluster  of  yellow  cassia; 
the  wasp  had  alreadj^  forgotten  its  achievement, 
and  I  alone — an  outsider,  an  interloper — ob- 
served, correlated,  realized,  appreciated,  and — at 
the  last — remained  as  completely  ignorant  as  the 
actors  themselves  of  the  real  driving  force,  of  the 
certain  beginning,  of  the  inevitable  end.  Only  a 
momentarv  cross-section  was  vouchsafed,  and  a 
wonder  and  a  desire  to  know  fanned  a  little  hot- 
ter. 


A  JUNGLE  CLEAIUXG  45 

I  had  far  from  finished  with  my  weed :  for  be- 
sides the  cuts  and  tears  and  disfigurements  of  the 
leaves,  I  saw  a  score  or  more  of  curious  berry-hke 
or  acorn-iike  growths,  springing  from  both  leaf 
and  stem.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  they  were  in- 
sect-galls, but  never  before  had  they  meant  quite 
so  much,  or  fitted  in  so  v/ell  as  a  significant 
phenomenon  in  the  nexus  of  entangling  relation- 
ships between  the  weed  and  its  environment. 
This  visitor,  also  a  minute  wasp  of  sorts,  neither 
bit  nor  cut  the  leaves,  but  quietly  slipped  a  tiny 
egg  here  and  there  into  the  leaf-tissue. 

And  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  complex- 
ity. For  with  the  quickening  of  the  larva  came 
a  reaction  on  the  part  of  the  plant,  which,  in  de- 
fense, set  up  a  greatly  accelerated  growth  about 
the  young  insect.  This  might  have  taken  the 
form  of  some  distorted  or  deformed  plant  organ 
■ — a  cluster  of  leaves,  a  fruit  or  berry  or  tuft  of 
hairs,  wholly  unlike  the  characters  of  the  plant 
itself.  My  weed  was  studded  with  what  might 
well  have  been  normal  seed-fruits,  were  they  not 
proved  nightmares  of  berries,  awful  pseudo- 
fruits  sprouting  from  horridlj^  impossible  places. 
And  this  excess  of  energy,  expressed  in  tumorous 
outgrowths,  was  all  vitally  useful  to  the  ^rub — 


46  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

just  as  the  skilful  jiu-jitsu  wrestler  accomplishes 
his  purpose  with  the  aid  of  his  opponent's 
strength.  The  insect  and  plant  were,  however, 
far  more  intricately  related  than  any  two  human 
competitors:  for  the  grub  in  turn  required  the 
continued  health  and  strength  of  the  plant  for  its 
existence;  and  when  I  plucked  a  leaf,  I  knew  I 
had  doomed  all  the  hidden  insects  living  within 
its  substance. 

The  galls  at  my  hand  simulated  little  acorns, 
dull  greenish  in  color,  matching  the  leaf-surface 
on  which  they  rested,  and  rising  in  a  sharp  point. 
I  cut  one  through  and,  when  wearied  and  fretted 
with  the  responsibilities  of  independent  existence, 
I  know  I  shall  often  recall  and  envy  my  grub  in 
his  palatial  parasitic  home.  Outside  came  a 
rather  hard,  brown  protective  sheath;  then  the 
main  body  of  the  gall,  of  firm  and  dense  tissue; 
and  finally,  at  the  heart,  like  the  Queen's  cham- 
ber in  Cheops,  the  irregular  little  dwelling-place 
of  the  grub.  This  was  not  empty  and  barren; 
but  the  blackness  and  silence  of  this  vegetable 
chamber,  this  architecture  fashioned  bv  the 
strangest  of  builders  for  the  most  remarkable  of 
tenants,  was  filled  with  a  nap  of  long,  crystalline 
hairs  or  threads  like  the  spun-glass  candy  in  our 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  47 

Christmas  sweetshops — white  at  the  base  and 
shading  from  pale  salmon  to  the  deepest  of  pinks. 
This  exquisite  tapestry,  whose  beauties  were  nor- 
mally forever  hidden  as  well  from  the  blind  grub 
as  from  the  outside  world,  was  the  ambrosia  all 
unwittingly  provided  by  the  antagonism  of  the 
plant;  the  nutrition  of  resentment,  the  food  of 
defiance;  and  day  by  day  the  grub  gradually  ate 
his  way  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  his  suite, 
laying  a  normal,  healthful  physical  foundation 
for  his  future  aerial  activities. 

The  natural  history  of  galls  is  full  of  romance 
and  strange  unrealities,  but  to-day  it  meant  to 
me  only  a  renewed  instance  of  an  opportunity 
seized  and  made  the  most  of;  the  success  of  the 
indirect,  the  unreasonable — the  long  chance 
which  so  few  of  us  humans  are  willing  to  take,  al- 
though the  reward  is  a  perpetual  enthusiasm  for 
the  happening  of  the  moment,  and  the  honest 
gambler's  joy  for  the  future.  How  much  more 
desirable  to  acquire  merit  as  a  footless  grub  in 
the  heart  of  a  home,  erected  and  precariously 
nourished  by  a  worthy  opponent,  with  a  future 
of  unnumbered  possibilities,  than  to  be  a  queen- 
mother  in  nest  or  hive — cared-for,  fed,  and 
cleansed  by  a  host  of  slaves,  but  with  less  pros- 


48  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

pect  of  change  or  of  adventure  than  an  average 
toadstool. 

Thus  I  sat  for  a  long  time,  lulled  by  similitudes 
of  northern  plants  and  bees  and  birds,  and  then 
gently  shifted  southward  a  few  hundred  miles, 
the  transition  being  smooth  and  unabrupt.  With 
equal  gentleness  the  dead  calm  stirred  slightly 
and  exhaled  the  merest  ghost  of  a  breeze;  it 
seemed  as  if  the  air  was  hardly  in  motion,  but 
only  restless:  the  wings  of  the  bees  and  the  fly- 
catcher might  well  have  caused  it.  But,  judged 
by  the  sequence  of  events,  it  was  the  almost  im- 
perceptible signal  given  by  some  great  Jungle 
Spirit,  who  had  tired  of  playing  with  my  dreams 
and  pleasant  fancies  of  northern  life,  and  now 
called  upon  her  legions  to  disillusion  me.  And 
the  response  was  immediate.  Three  great  shells 
burst  at  my  very  feet, — one  of  sound,  one  of 
color,  and  the  third  of  both  plus  numbers, — and 
from  that  time  on,  tropical  life  was  dominant 
whichever  way  I  looked.  That  is  the  way  with 
the  wilderness,  and  especially  the  tropical  wilder- 
ness— to  surprise  one  in  the  very  field  with  which 
one  is  most  familiar.  ^^Hiile  in  my  own  estima- 
tion my  chief  profession  is  ignorance,  yet  I  sign 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  49 

my  passport  applications  and  my  jury  evasions 
as  Ornithologist.  And  now  this  playful  Spirit 
of  the  Jungle  permitted  me  to  meditate  cheer- 
fully on  my  ability  to  compare  the  faunas  of  New 
York  and  Guiana,  and  then  proceeded  to  startle 
me  with  three  salvos  of  birds,  first  physically  and 
then  emotionally. 

From  the  monotone  of  under-world  sounds  a 
strange  little  rasping  detached  itself,  a  reiterated, 
subdued  scraping  or  picking.  It  carried  my 
mind  instantly  to  the  throbbing  theme  of  the 
Niebelungs,  onomatopoetic  of  the  little  hammers 
forever  busy  in  their  underground  work.  I  cir- 
cled a  small  bush  at  mv  side,  and  found  that  the 
sound  came  from  one  of  the  branches  near  the 
top;  so  with  my  glasses  I  began  a  systematic 
search.  It  was  at  this  propitious  moment,  when 
I  was  relaxed  in  every  muscle,  steeped  in  the 
quiet  of  this  hillside,  and  keen  on  discovering  the 
beetle,  that  the  first  shell  arrived.  If  I  had  been 
less  absorbed  I  might  have  heard  some  distant 
chattering  or  calling,  but  this  time  it  was  as  if  a 
Spad  had  shut  off  its  power,  volplaned,  kept 
ahead  of  its  own  sound  waves,  and  bombed  me. 
All  that  actually  happened  was  that  a  band  of  lit- 
tle parrakeets  flew  down  and  alighted  nearby. 


50  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

When  I  discovered  this,  it  seemed  a  disconcerting 
anti-climax,  just  as  one  can  make  the  bravest 
man  who  has  been  under  rifle-fire  flinch  by  spin- 
ning a  match  swiftly  past  his  ear. 

I  have  heard  this  sound  of  parrakeet's  wings, 
when  the  birds  were  alighting  nearby,  half  a 
dozen  times ;  but  after  half  a  hundred  I  shall  duck 
just  as  spontaneously,  and  for  a  few  seconds 
stand  just  as  immobile  with  astonishment.  From 
a  volcano  I  expect  deep  and  sinister  sounds; 
when  I  watch  great  breakers  I  would  marvel  only 
if  the  accompanying  roar  were  absent;  but  on  a 
calm  sunn}^  August  day  I  do  not  expect  a  noise 
which,  for  suddenness  and  startling  character, 
can  be  compared  only  with  a  tremendous  flash  of 
lightning.  Imagine  a  wonderful  tapestry  of 
strong  ancient  stuff,  which  had  only  been  woven, 
never  torn,  and  think  of  this  suddenly  ripped 
from  top  to  bottom  by  some  sinister,  irresistible 
force. 

In  the  instant  that  the  sound  began,  it  ceased ; 
there  was  no  echo,  no  bell-like  sustained  over- 
tones; both  ends  were  buried  in  silence.  As  it 
came  to-day  it  was  a  high  tearing  crash  which 
shattered  silence  as  a  Very  light  destroys  dark- 
ness; and  at  its  cessation  I  looked  up  and  saw 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  51 

twenty  little  green  figures  gazing  intently  do\Mi 
at  me,  from  so  small  a  sapling  that  their  addition 
almost  doubled  the  fohage.  That  their  small 
wings  could  wring  such  a  sound  from  the  fabric 
of  the  air  was  unbelievable.  At  my  first  move- 
ment, the  flock  leaped  forth,  and  if  their  wings 
made  even  a  rustle,  it  was  wholly  drowned  in  the 
chorus  of  chattering  cries  which  poured  forth  un- 
ceasingly as  the  little  band  swept  up  and  around 
the  sky  circle.  As  an  alighting  morpho  butterfly 
dazzles  the  eyes  with  a  final  flash  of  his  blazing 
azure  before  vanishing  behind  the  leaves  and 
fungi  of  his  lower  surface,  so  parrakeets  change 
from  screaming  motes  in  the  heavens  to  silence, 
and  then  to  a  hurtling,  roaring  boomerang,  whose 
amazing  unexpectedness  would  distract  the  most 
dangerous  eyes  from  the  little  motionless  leaf -fig- 
ures in  a  neighboring  tree-top. 

When  I  sat  down  again,  the  whole  feeling  of 
the  hillside  was  changed.  I  was  aware  that  my 
weed  was  a  northern  weed  only  in  appearance, 
and  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  to  see  my 
bees  change  to  flies  or  my  lizards  to  snakes — 
tropical  beings  have  a  way  of  doing  such  things. 

The  next  phenomenon  was  color, — unreal,  liv- 
ing pigment, — which  seemed  to  appeal  to  more 


52  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

than  one  sense,  and  which  satisfied,  as  a  cooling 
drink  or  a  rare,  dehcious  fragrance  satisfies.  A 
medium-sized,  stocky  bird  flew  with  steady  wing- 
beats  over  the  jmigle,  in  black  silhouette  against 
the  sky,  and  swung  up  to  an  outstanding  giant 
tree  which  partly  overhung  the  edge  of  my  clear- 
ing. The  instant  it  passed  the  zone  of  green,  it 
flashed  out  brilliant  turquoise,  and  in  the  same 
instant  I  recognized  it  and  reached  for  my  gun. 
Before  I  retrieved  the  bird,  a  second,  dull  and 
dark-feathered,  flew  from  the  tree.  I  had 
watched  it  for  some  time,  but  now,  as  it  passed 
over,  I  saw  no  yellow  and  knew  it  too  was  of  real 
scientific  interest  to  me ;  and  with  the  second  bar- 
rel I  secured  it.  Picking  up  my  first  bird,  I 
found  that  it  was  not  turquoise,  but  beryl ;  and  a 
few  minutes  later  I  was  certain  that  it  was  aqua- 
marine ;  on  my  way  home  another  glance  showed 
the  color  of  forget-me-nots  on  its  plumage,  and 
as  I  looked  at  it  on  my  table,  it  was  Nile  green. 
Yet  the  feathers  were  painted  in  flat  color,  with- 
out especial  sheen  or  iridescence,  and  when  I 
finally  analyzed  it,  I  found  it  to  be  a  delicate  cala- 
mine blue.  It  actually  had  the  appearance  of  a 
too  strong  color,  as  when  a  glistening  surface  re- 
flects the  sun.     From  beak  to  tail  it  threw  off 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  53 

this  glowing  hue,  except  for  its  chin  and  throat, 
which  were  a  limpid  amaranth  purple;  and  the 
effect  on  the  excited  rods  and  cones  in  one's  ej^es 
was  like  the  power  of  great  music  or  some  majes- 
tic passage  in  the  Bible.  You,  who  think  my 
similes  are  overdone,  search  out  in  the  nearest 
museum  the  dustiest  of  purple-throated  cotingas, 
— Cotinga  cayana, — and  then,  instead,  berate  me 
for  inadequacy. 

Sheer  color  alone  is  powerful  enough,  but  when 
heightened  by  contrast,  it  becomes  still  more  ef- 
fective, and  I  seemed  to  have  secured,  w^ith  two 
barrels,  a  cotinga  and  its  shadow.  The  latter  was 
also  a  full-grown  male  cotinga,  known  to  a  few 
people  in  this  world  as  the  dark-breasted  mourner 
(Lipaugus  simple j:^)  .  In  general  shape  and 
form  it  was  not  unlike  its  cousin,  but  in  color  it 
was  its  shadow,  its  silhouette.  Not  a  feather 
upon  head  or  body,  wings  or  tail  showed  a  hint  of 
warmth,  only  a  dull  uniform  gray;  an  ash  of  a 
bird,  living  in  the  same  warm  sunlight,  wet  by 
the  same  rain,  feeding  on  much  the  same  food, 
and  claiming  relationship  with  a  blazing-feath- 
ered turquoise.  There  is  some  very  exact  and 
very  absorbing  reason  for  all  this,  and  for  it  I 
search  with  fervor,  but  with  little  success.    But 


54  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

we  may  be  certain  that  the  causes  of  this  and  ol 
the  host  of  other  unreasonable  reahties  whicl 
fill  the  path  of  the  evolutionist  with  never- 
quenched  enthusiasm,  will  extend  far  beyond  th( 
colors  of  two  tropical  birds.  They  will  hav( 
something  to  do  with  flowers  and  v/ith  bright  but 
terflies,  and  we  shall  know  why  our  "favorite 
color"  is  more  than  a  whim,  and  why  the  Greeks 
mav  not  have  been  able  to  distino^uish  the  ful 
gamut  of  our  spectrum,  and  why  rainbows  are 
so  narrow  to  our  eyes  in  comparison  to  what  thej 
might  be. 

Finally,  there  was  thrown  aside  all  finesse,  al 
delicacy  of  presentation,  and  the  last  lingering 
feeling  of  temperate  life  and  nature  was  erased 
From  now  on  there  was  no  confusion  of  zones 
no  concessions,  no  mental  palimpsest  of  resolv- 
ing images.  The  spatial,  the  temporal, — the  hill- 
side, the  passing  seconds, — the  vibrations  anc 
material  atoms  stimulating  my  ^ve  senses,  al 
were  tropical,  quickened  with  the  unbelievable 
vitality  of  equatorial  life.  A  rustling  came  tc 
my  ears,  although  the  breeze  was  still  little  more 
than  a  sensation  of  coolness.  Then  a  deep  whin 
sounded  overhead,  and  another,  and  another,  anc 
with  a  rush  a  dozen  great  toucan?  were  all  abou1 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  55 

me.  Monstrous  beaks,  parodies  in  pastels  of  un- 
heard-of blues  and  greens,  breasts  which  glowed 
like  mirrored  suns, — orange  overlaid  upon  blind- 
ing yellow, — and  at  every  flick  of  the  tail  a  tren- 
chant flash  of  intense  scarlet.  All  these  colors 
set  in  frames  of  jet-black  plumage,  and  suddenly 
hurled  through  blue  sky  and  green  foliage,  made 
the  hillside  a  brilliant  moving  kaleidoscope. 

Some  flew  straight  over,  with  several  quick 
flaps,  then  a  smooth  glide,  flaps  and  glide.  A 
few  banked  sharply  at  sight  of  me,  and  wheeled 
to  right  or  left.  Others  alighted  and  craned  their 
necks  in  suspicion;  but  all  sooner  or  later  disap- 
peared eastward  in  the  direction  of  a  mighty 
jungle  tree  just  bursting  into  a  myriad  of  ber- 
ries. They  were  sulphur-breasted  toucans,  and 
they  were  silent,  heralded  only  by  the  sound  of 
their  wings  and  the  crash  of  their  pigments.  I 
can  think  of  no  other  assemblage  of  jungle  crea* 
tures  more  fitted  to  impress  one  with  the  prodi^ 
gality  of  tropical  nature.  Four  years  before,  w^e 
set  ourselves  to  work  to  discover  the  first  eggs 
and  young  of  toucans,  and  after  weeks  of  heart- 
breaking labor  and  disappointments  we  suc- 
ceeded. Out  of  the  five  species  of  toucans  living 
in  this  part  of  Guiana  we  found  the  nests  of  four. 


56  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

and  the  one  which  eluded  us  was  the  big  sulphur- 
breasted  fellow.  I  remembered  so  vividly  the 
painstaking  care  with  which,  w^eek  after  week,  we 
and  our  Indians  tramped  the  jungle  for  miles, — 
through  swamps  and  over  rolling  hills, — at  last 
having  to  admit  failure;  and  now  I  sat  and 
watched  thirty,  forty,  fifty  of  the  splendid  birds 
whirr  past.  As  the  last  of  the  fifty-four  flew  on 
to  their  feast  of  berries,  I  recalled  with  difficulty 
my  faded  visions  of  northern  birds. 

And  so  ended,  as  in  the  great  finale  of  a  pyro- 
technic  display,  my  tv/o  hours  on  a  hillside  clear- 
ing. I  can  neither  enliven  it  w^th  a  startling  es- 
cape, nor  add  a  thrill  of  danger,  without  using  as 
many  "ifs"  as  would  be  needed  to  make  a  Jersey 
meadow  untenable.  For  example,  if  I  had  fallen 
over  backwards  and  been  powerless  to  rise  or 
move,  I  should  have  been  killed  within  half  an 
hour,  for  a  stray  column  of  army  ants  was  pass- 
ing within  a  yard  of  me,  and  death  would  await 
any  helpless  being  falling  across  their  path.  But 
by  searching  out  a  copperhead  and  imitating 
Cleopatra,  or  with  patience  and  persistence  de- 
vouring every  toadstool,  the  same  result  could 
be  achieved  in  our  home-town  orchard.  When  on 
the  march,  the  army  ants  are  as  innocuous  at  two 


A  JUNGLE  CLEARING  57 

inches  as  at  two  miles.  Had  I  sat  where  I  was 
for  days  and  for  nights,  my  chief  danger  would 
have  been  demise  from  sheer  chagrin  at  my  in- 
ability to  grasp  the  deeper  significance  of  life 
and  its  earthly  activities. 


m 

THE  HOME  TOWN  OF  THE  ARMY 

ANTS 

From  uniform  to  civilian  clothes  is  a  change 
transcending  mere  alteration  of  stuffs  and  but- 
tons. It  is  scarcely  less  sweeping  than  the  shift 
from  civilian  clothes  to  bathing-suit,  which  so 
often  compels  us  to  concentrate  on  remembered 
mental  attributes,  to  avoid  demanding  a  renewed 
introduction  to  estranged  personality.  In  the 
home  life  of  the  average  soldier,  the  relaxation 
from  sustained  tension  and  conscious  routine  re- 
sults in  a  gentleness  and  quietness  of  mood  for 
which  warrior  nations  are  especially  remembered. 

Army  ants  have  no  insignia  to  lay  aside,  and 
their  swords  are  too  firmly  hafted  in  their  own 
beings  to  be  hung  up  as  post-bellum  mural  deco- 
rations, or — as  is  done  only  in  poster-land — meta- 
morphosed into  pruning-hooks  and  plowshares. 

I  sat  at  my  laboratory  table  at  Kartabo,  and 
looked  down  river  to  the  pink  roof  of  Kalacoon, 
and  my  mind  went  back  to  the  shambles  of  Pit 

58 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    59 

Number  Five.^  I  was  wondering  whether  I 
should  ever  see  the  army  ants  in  any  guise  other 
than  that  of  scouting,  batthng  searchers  for  liv- 
ing prey,  when  a  voice  of  the  jungle  seemed  to 
hear  my  unexpressed  wish.  The  sharp,  high 
notes  of  white-fronted  antbirds — those  white- 
crested  watchers  of  the  ants — came  to  my  ears, 
and  I  left  my  table  and  followed  up  the  sound. 
Physically,  I  merely  walked  around  the  bunga- 
low and  approached  the  edge  of  the  jungle  at  a 
point  where  we  had  erected  a  small  outhouse  a 
day  or  two  before.  But  this  two  hundred  feet 
might  just  as  well  have  been  a  single  step  through 
quicksilver,  hand  in  hand  with  Alice,  for  it  took 
me  from  a  world  of  hyoids  and  syrinxes,  of  vials 
and  lenses  and  clean-smelling  xylol,  to  the  home 
of  the  army  ants. 

The  antbirds  were  chirping  and  hopping  about 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  jungle,  but  I  did  not  have 
to  go  that  far.  As  I  passed  the  doorless  entrance 
of  the  outhouse  I  looked  up,  and  there  was  an  im- 
mense mass  of  some  strange  material  suspended 
in  the  upper  corner.  It  looked  like  stringy, 
chocolate-colored  tow,  studded  with  hundreds  of 
tiny  ivory  buttons.     I  came  closer  and  looked 

1  See  Jungle  Peace,  p.  211. 


60  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

carefully  at  this  mushroom  growth  which  had  ap- 
peared in  a  single  night,  and  it  was  then  that  my 
eyes  began  to  perceive  and  my  mind  to  record, 
things  that  my  reason  besought  me  to  reject. 
Such  phenomena  were  all  right  in  a  dream,  or 
one  might  imagine  them  and  tell  them  to  children 
on  one's  knee,  with  wind  in  the  eaves — wild  tales 
to  be  laughed  at  and  forgotten.  But  this  was 
daylight  and  I  was  a  scientist;  my  eyes  were  in 
excellent  order,  and  my  mind  rested  after  a 
dreamless  sleep ;  so  I  had  to  record  what  I  saw  in 
that  little  outhouse. 

This  chocolate-colored  mass  with  its  myriad 
ivory  dots  was  the  home,  the  nest,  the  hearth,  the 
nursery,  the  bridal  suite,  the  kitchen,  the  bed  and 
board  of  the  army  ants.  It  was  the  focus  of  all 
the  lines  and  files  which  ravaged  the  jungle  for 
food,  of  the  battalions  which  attacked  every  liv- 
ing creature  in  their  path,  of  the  unnumbered 
rank  and  file  which  made  them  known  to  every 
Indian,  to  every  inhabitant  of  these  vast  jungles. 

Louis  Quatorze  once  said,  ''UEtat,  cest  moi!'* 
but  this  figure  of  speech  becomes  an  empty, 
meaningless  phrase  beside  what  an  army  ant 
could  boast, — ''La  maison,  c'est  moir  Every 
rafter,  beam,  stringer,  window-frame  and  door- 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN         61 

frame,  hall-way,  room,  ceiling,  wall  and  floor, 
foundation,  superstructure  and  roof,  all  were 
ants — living  ants,  distorted  by  stress,  crowded 
into  the  dense  walls,  spread  out  to  widest  stretch 
across  tie-spaces.  I  had  thought  it  marvelous 
when  I  saw  them  arrange  themselves  as  bridges, 
walks,  hand-rails,  buttresses,  and  sign-boards 
along  the  columns;  but  this  new  absorption  of 
environment,  this  usurpation  of  wood  and  stone, 
this  insinuation  of  themselves  into  the  province 
of  the  inorganic  world,  was  almost  too  astound- 
ing to  credit. 

All  along  the  upper  rim  the  sustaining  struc- 
ture v/as  more  distinctly  visible  than  elsewhere. 
Here  was  a  maze  of  taut  brown  threads  stretch- 
ing in  places  across  a  span  of  six  inches,  with 
here  and  there  a  tiny  knot.  These  were  actually 
tie-strings  of  living  ants,  their  legs  stretched  al- 
most to  the  breaking-point,  their  bodies  the  in- 
conspicuous knots  or  nodes.  Even  at  rest  and 
at  home,  the  army  ants  are  always  prepared,  for 
every  quiescent  individual  in  the  swarm  was 
standing  as  erect  as  possible,  with  jaws  wide- 
spread and  ready,  whether  the  great  curved  ma- 
hogany scimitars  of  the  soldiers,  or  the  little 
black  daggers  of  the  smaller  workers.    And  with 


62  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

no  eyelids  to  close,  and  eyes  which  were  them- 
selves a  mockery,  the  nerve  shriveling  and  never 
reaching  the  brain,  what  could  sleep  mean  to 
them?  Wrapped  ever  in  an  impenetrable  cloak 
of  darkness  and  silence,  life  was  yet  one  great 
activity,  directed,  ordered,  commanded  by  scent 
and  odor  alone.  Hour  after  hour,  as  I  sat  close 
to  the  nest,  I  was  aware  of  this  odor,  sometimes 
subtle,  again  wafted  in  strong  successive  waves. 
It  was  musty,  like  something  sweet  which  had 
begun  to  mold ;  not  unpleasant,  but  very  difficult 
to  describe;  and  in  vain  I  strove  to  realize  the 
importance  of  this  faint  essence — taking  the 
place  of  sound,  of  language,  of  color,  of  mo- 
tion, of  form. 

I  recovered  quickly  from  my  first  rapl  realiza- 
tion, for  a  dozen  ants  had  lost  no  time  in  ascend'^ 
ing  my  shoes,  and,  as  if  at  a  preconcerted  signa;!, 
all  simultaneously  sank  their  jaws  into  my  per- 
son. Thus  strongly  recalled  to  the  realities  of 
life,  I  realized  the  opportunity  that  was  offered 
and  planned  for  my  observation.  No  living 
thing  could  long  remain  motionless  within  the 
sphere  of  influence  of  these  six-legged  Boches, 
and  yet  I  intended  to  spend  days  in  close  prox- 
imity.   There  was  no  place  to  hang  a  hammock. 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    63 

no  over-hanging  tree  from  which  I  might  sus- 
pend myself  spider-wise.  So  I  sent  Sam  for  an 
ordinary  chair,  four  tin  cans,  and  a  bottle  of  dis- 
infectant. I  filled  the  tins  with  the  tarry  fluid, 
and  in  four  carefully  timed  rushes  I  placed  the 
tins  in  a  chair-leg  square.  The  fifth  time  I  put 
the  chair  in  place  beneath  the  nest,  but  I  had  mis- 
judged my  distances  and  had  to  retreat  with 
only  two  tins  in  place.  Another  effort,  with 
Spartan-like  disregard  of  the  fiery  bites,  and  my 
haven  was  ready.  I  hung  a  bag  of  vials,  note- 
book, and  lens  on  the  chairback,  and,  with  a  final 
rush,  climbed  on  the  seat  and  curled  up  as  com- 
fortably as  possible. 

All  around  the  tins,  swarming  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  liquid,  were  the  angry  hosts.  Close  to  my 
face  were  the  lines  ascending  and  descending, 
while  just  above  me  were  hundreds  of  thousands, 
a  bushel-basket  of  army  ants,  with  only  the 
strength  of  their  thread-like  legs  as  suspension 
cables.  It  took  some  time  to  get  used  to  my  en- 
vironment, and  from  first  to  last  I  was  never 
wholly  relaxed,  or  quite  unconscious  of  what 
would  happen  if  a  chair-leg  broke,  or  a  bamboo 
fell  across  the  outhouse. 

I  swiveled  round  on  the  chair-seat  and  counted 


64i  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

eight  lines  of  army  ants  on  the  ground,  converg- 
ing to  the  post  at  my  elbow.  Each  was  fom-  or 
five  ranks  wide,  and  the  eight  lines  occasionally 
divided  or  coalesced,  like  a  nexus  of  capillaries. 
There  was  a  wide  expanse  of  sand  and  clay,  and 
no  apparent  reason  why  the  various  lines  of  for- 
agers should  not  approach  the  nest  in  a  single 
large  column.  The  dividing  and  redividing 
showed  well  how  completely  free  were  the  col- 
umns from  any  individual  dominance.  There 
was  no  control  by  specific  individuals  or  soldiers, 
but,  the  general  route  once  established,  the  gov- 
erning factor  was  the  odor  of  contact. 

The  law  to  pass  where  others  have  passed  is 
immutable,  but  freedom  of  action  or  individual 
desire  dies  with  the  malleable,  plastic  ends  of  the 
foraging  columns.  Again  and  again  came  to 
mind  the  comparison  of  the  entire  colony  or  army 
with  a  single  organism;  and  now  the  home,  the 
nesting  swarm,  the  focus  of  central  control, 
seemed  like  the  body  of  this  strange  amorphous 
organism — housing  the  spirit  of  the  army.  One 
thinks  of  a  column  of  foragers  as  a  tendril  with 
only  the  tip  sensitive  and  growing  and  moving, 
while  the  corpuscle-like  individual  ants  are 
driven  in  the  current  of  blind  instinct  to  and  fro. 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    65 

on  their  chemical  errands.  And  then  this  whole 
theory,  this  most  vivid  simile,  is  quite  upset  by 
the  sights  that  I  watch  in  the  suburbs  of  this  ant 
home! 

The  columns  were  most  excellent  barometers, 
and  their  reaction  to  passing  showers  was  invari- 
able. The  clay  surface  held  water,  and  after 
each  downfall  the  pools  would  be  higher,  and  the 
contour  of  the  little  region  altered.  At  the  first 
few  drops,  all  the  ants  would  hasten,  the  throb- 
bing corpuscles  speeding  up.  Then,  as  the  rain 
came  down  heavier,  the  column  melted  away, 
those  near  each  end  hurrying  to  shelter  and  those 
in  the  center  crawling  beneath  fallen  leaves  and 
bits  of  clod  and  sticks.  A  moment  before,  hun- 
dreds of  ants  were  trudging  around  a  tiny  pool, 
the  water  lined  with  ant  handrails,  and  in  shallow 
places,  veritable  formicine  pontoons, — large  ants 
which  stood  up  to  their  bodies  in  water,  with  the 
booty-laden  host  passing  over  them.  Now,  all 
had  vanished,  leaving  only  a  bare  expanse  of 
splashing  drops  and  wet  clay.  The  sun  broke 
through  and  the  residue  rain  tinkled  from  the 
bamboos. 

As  gradually  as  the  growth  of  the  rainbow 
above  the  jungle,  the  lines  reformed  themselves. 


66  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Scouts  crept  from  the  jungle-edge  at  one  side, 
and  from  the  post  at  my  end,  and  felt  their  way, 
fan-wise,  over  the  rain-scoured  surface;  for  the 
odor,  which  was  both  sight  and  sound  to  these 
ants,  had  been  washed  away — a  more  serious  han- 
dicap than  mere  change  in  contour.  Swiftly  the 
wandering  individuals  found  their  bearings 
again.  There  was  deep  water  where  dry  land 
bad  been,  but,  as  if  by  long-planned  study  of  the 
work  of  sappers  and  engineers,  new  pontoon 
bridges  were  thrown  across,  washouts  filled  in, 
new  cliffs  explored,  and  easy  grades  established; 
and  by  the  time  the  bamboos  ceased  their  own 
private  after-shower,  the  columns  were  again 
running  smoothly,  battalions  of  eager  light  in- 
fantry hastening  out  to  battle,  and  equal  hosts 
of  loot-laden  warriors  hurrying  toward  the  home 
nest.  Four  minutes  was  the  average  time  taken 
to  reform  a  column  across  the  ten  feet  of  open 
clay,  with  all  the  road-making  and  engineering 
feats  which  I  have  mentioned,  on  the  part  of  ants 
who  had  never  been  over  this  new  route  before. 

Leaning  forward  within  a  few  inches  of  the 
post,  I  lost  all  sense  of  proportion,  forgot  my 
awkward  human  size,  and  with  a  new  perspec- 
tive became  an  equal  of  the  ants,  looking  on. 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    67 

watching  every  passer-by  with  interest,  straining 
with  the  bearers  of  the  heavy  loads,  and  breath- 
ing more  easily  when  the  last  obstacle  was  over- 
come and  home  attained.  For  a  period  I  plucked 
out  every  bit  of  good-sized  booty  and  found  that 
almost  all  were  portions  of  scorpions  from  far- 
distant  dead  logs  in  the  jungle,  creatures  whose 
strength  and  poisonous  stings  availed  nothing 
against  the  attacks  of  these  fierce  ants.  The 
loads  were  adjusted  equably,  the  larger  pieces 
carried  by  the  big,  white-headed  workers,  while 
the  smaller  ants  transported  small  eggs  and  lar- 
vse.  Often,  when  a  great  mandibled  soldier  had 
hold  of  some  insect,  he  would  have  five  or  six  tiny 
workers  surrounding  him,  each  grasping  any  pro- 
jecting part  of  the  loot,  as  if  they  did  not  trust 
him  in  this  menial  capacity, — as  an  anxious 
mother  would  watch  with  doubtful  confidence  a 
big  policeman  wheeling  her  baby  across  a 
crowded  street.  These  workers  were  often  dimin- 
utive Marcelines,  hindering  rather  than  aiding 
in  the  progress.  But  in  every  phase  of  activity 
of  these  ants  there  was  not  an  ounce  of  inten- 
tionally lost  power,  or  a  moment  of  time  wilfully 
gone  to  waste.  What  a  commentary  on  Bol- 
shevism ! 


68  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Now  that  I  had  the  opportunity  of  quietly 
watching  the  long,  hurrying  columns,  I  came 
hour  by  hour  to  feel  a  greater  intimacy,  a  deeper 
enthusiasm  for  their  vigor  of  existence,  their  un- 
faihng  life  at  the  highest  point  of  possibility  of 
achievement.  In  every  direction  my  former  des- 
ultory observations  were  discounted  by  still 
greater  accomplishments.  Elsewhere  I  have  re- 
corded the  average  speed  as  two  and  a  half  feet 
in  ten  seconds,  estimating  this  as  a  mile  in  three 
and  a  half  hours.  An  observant  colonel  in  the 
American  army  has  laid  bare  my  congenitally 
hopeless  mathematical  inaccuracy,  and  corrected 
this  to  five  hours  and  fifty-two  seconds.  Now, 
however,  I  established  a  wholly  new  record  for 
the  straight-away  dash  for  home  of  the  army  ants. 
With  the  handicap  of  gravity  pulling  them  down, 
the  ants,  both  laden  and  unburdened,  averaged 
ten  feet  in  twenty  seconds,  as  they  raced  up  the 
post.  I  have  now  called  in  an  artist  and  an 
astronomer  to  verify  my  results,  these  two  being 
the  only  living  beings  within  hailing  distance  as  I 
write,  except  a  baby  red  howling  monkey  curled 
up  in  my  lap,  and  a  toucan,  sloth,  and  green  boa, 
beyond  my  laboratory  table.  Our  results  are 
identical,  and  I  can  safely  announce  that  the 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN  69 

amateur  record  for  speed  of  army  ants  is  equiva- 
lent to  a  mile  in  two  hours  and  fifty-six  seconds ; 
and  this  when  handicapped  by  gravity  and  bur- 
dens of  food,  but  with  the  incentive  of  approach- 
ing the  end  of  their  long  journey. 

As  once  before,  I  accidentally  disabled  a  big 
worker  that  I  was  robbing  of  his  load,  and  his 
entire  abdomen  rolled  down  a  slope  and  disap- 
peared. Hours  later  in  the  afternoon,  I  was  sum- 
moned to  view  the  same  soldier,  unconcernedly 
making  his  way  along  an  outward-bound  column, 
guarding  it  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  not  lost  the 
major  part  of  his  anatomy.  His  mandibles  were 
ready,  and  the  only  difference  that  I  could  see 
was  that  he  could  make  better  speed  than  others 
of  his  caste.  That  night  he  joined  the  general 
assemblage  of  cripples  quietly  awaiting  death, 
halfway  up  to  the  nest. 

I  know  of  no  highway  in  the  world  which  sur- 
passes that  of  a  big  column  of  army  ants  in  ex- 
citing happenings,  although  I  usually  had  the 
feeling  which  inspired  Kim  as  he  watched  the 
Great  White  Road,  of  understanding  so  little 
of  all  that  was  going  on.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing there  were  only  outgoing  hosts;  but  soon 
eddies  were  seen  in  the  swift  current,  vortexes 


70  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

made  by  a  single  ant  here  and  there  forcing  its 
way  against  the  stream.  Unhke  penguins  and 
human  beings,  army  ants  have  no  rule  of  the 
road  as  to  right  and  left,  and  there  is  no  lessen- 
ing of  pace  or  turning  aside  for  a  heavily  laden 
drogher.  Their  blindness  caused  them  to  bump 
squarely  into  every  individual,  often  sending 
load  and  carrier  tumbling  to  the  bottom  of  a 
vertical  path.  Another  constant  loss  of  energy 
was  a  large  cockroach  leg,  or  scorpion  segment, 
carried  by  several  ants.  Their  insistence  on  try- 
ing to  carry  everything  beneath  their  bodies 
caused  all  sorts  of  comical  mishaps.  When  such 
a  large  piece  of  booty  appeared,  it  was  too  much 
of  a  temptation,  and  a  dozen  outgoing  ants  would 
rush  up  and  seize  hold  for  a  moment,  the  con- 
sequent pulling  in  all  directions  reducing  prog- 
ress at  once  to  zero. 

Until  late  afternoon  few  ants  returned  with- 
out carrying  their  bit.  The  exceptions  were  the 
cripples,  which  were  numerous  and  very  pitiful. 
From  such  fierce  strenuousness,  such  virile  ac- 
tivity, as  unending  as  elemental  processes,  it 
seemed  a  very  terrible  drop  to  disability,  to  the 
utilizing  of  every  atom  of  remaining  strength  to 
return  to  the  temporary  home  nest — that  instinct 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN  71 

which  drives  so  many  creatures  to  the  same  hom- 
ing, at  the  approach  of  death. 

Even  in  their  helplessness  thej-  were  wonder- 
ful. To  see  a  big  black-headed  worker  strug- 
gling up  a  post  with  five  short  stumps  and  only 
one  good  hind  leg,  was  a  lesson  in  achieving  the 
impossible.  I  have  never  seen  even  a  suspicion 
of  aid  given  to  any  cripple,  no  matter  how  slight 
or  how  complete  the  disability;  but  frequently 
a  strange  thing  occurred,  which  I  have  often 
noticed  but  can  never  explain.  One  armj^  ant 
would  carry  another,  perhaps  of  its  own  size 
and  caste,  just  as  if  it  were  a  bit  of  dead  prov- 
ender; and  I  always  wondered  if  cannibalism 
was  to  be  added  to  their  habits.  I  would  cap- 
ture both,  and  the  minute  they  were  in  the  vial, 
the  dead  ant  would  come  to  life,  and  with  equal 
vigor  and  fury  both  would  rush  about  their 
prison,  seeking  to  escape,  becoming  indistinguish- 
able in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Very  rarely  an  ant  stopped  and  attempted  to 
clean  another  which  had  become  partly  disabled 
through  an  accumulation  of  gummy  sap  or  other 
encumbering  substance.  But  when  a  leg  or  other 
organ  was  broken  or  missing,  the  odor  of  the 
ant-blood  seemed  to  arouse  only  suspicion  and 


72  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  banish  sympathy,  and  after  a  few  casual  wav- 
ings  of  antennae,  all  passed  by  on  the  other  side. 
Not  only  this,  but  the  unfortunates  were  act- 
ually in  danger  of  attack  within  the  very  lines 
of  traffic  of  the  legionaries.  Several  times  I  no- 
ticed small  rove-beetles  accompanying  the  ants, 
who  paid  little  attention  to  them.  Whenever 
an  ant  became  suspicious  and  approached  with 
a  raised-eyebrow  gesture  of  antennae,  the  beetles 
turned  their  backs  quickly  and  raised  threaten- 
ing tails.  But  I  did  not  suspect  the  vampire 
or  thug-like  character  of  these  guests — tolerated 
where  any  other  insect  would  have  been  torn 
to  pieces  at  once.  A  large  crippled  worker,  hob- 
bling along,  had  slipped  a  little  away  from  the 
main  line,  when  I  was  astonished  to  see  two  rove- 
beetles  rush  at  him  and  bite  him  viciously,  a  third 
coming  up  at  once  and  joining  in.  The  poor 
worker  had  no  possible  chance  against  this  com- 
bination, and  he  went  down  after  a  short,  futile 
struggle.  Two  small  army  ants  now  happened 
to  pass,  and  after  a  preliminary  whiffing  with 
waving  antennae,  rushed  joyously  into  the  melee. 
The  beetles  had  a  cowardly  weapon,  and  raising 
their  tails,  ejected  a  drop  or  two  of  liquid,  utterly 
confusing  the  ants,  which  turned  and  hastened 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    73 

back  to  the  column.  For  the  next  few  minutes, 
until  the  scent  wore  off,  they  aroused  suspicion 
wherever  they  went.  Meanwhile,  the  hyena-like 
rove-beetles,  having  hedged  themselves  within  a 
barricade  of  their  malodor,  proceeded  to  feast, 
quarreling  with  one  another  as  such  cowards  are 
wont  to  do. 

Thus  I  thought,  having  identified  myself  with 
the  army  ants.  From  a  broader,  less  biased  point 
of  view,  I  realized  that  credit  should  be  given  to 
the  rove-beetles  for  having  established  themselves 
in  a  zone  of  such  constant  danger,  and  for  being 
able  to  live  and  thrive  in  it. 

The  columns  converged  at  the  foot  of  the  post, 
and  up  its  surface  ran  the  main  artery  of  the 
nest.  Halfway  up,  a  flat  board  projected,  and 
here  the  column  divided  for  the  last  time,  half 
going  on  directly  into  the  nest,  and  the  other 
half  turning  aside,  skirting  the  board,  ascending 
a  bit  of  perpendicular  canvas,  and  entering  the 
nest  from  the  rear.  The  entrance  was  well 
guarded  by  a  veritable  moat  and  drawbridge  of 
living  ants.  A  foot  away,  a  flat  mat  of  ants, 
mandibles  outward,  was  spread,  over  which  every 
passing  individual  stepped.  Six  inches  farther, 
and  the  sides  of  the  mat  thickened,  and  in  the  last 


74  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

three  inches  these  sides  met  overhead,  forming 
a  short  tunnel  at  the  end  of  which  the  nest  began. 

And  here  I  noticed  an  interesting  thing.  Into 
this  organic  moat  or  tunnel,  this  living  mouth  of 
an  inferno,  passed  all  the  booty-laden  foragers, 
or  those  who  for  some  reason  had  returned 
empty-mouthed.  But  the  outgoing  host  seeped 
gradually  from  the  outermost  nest-layer — a  grad- 
ual but  fundamental  circulation,  like  that  of 
ocean  currents.  Scorpions,  eggs,  caterpillars, 
glass-like  wasp  pups,  roaches,  spiders,  crickets, 
- — all  were  drawn  into  the  nest  by  a  maelstrom 
of  hunger,  funneling  into  the  narrow  tunnel; 
while  from  over  all  the  surface  of  the  sv/arm 
there  crept  forth  layer  after  layer  of  invigorated, 
implacable  seekers  after  food. 

The  mass  of  ants  composing  the  nest  appeared 
so  loosely  connected  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  touch 
would  tear  a  hole,  a  light  wind  rend  the  sup- 
ports. It  w^as  suspended  in  the  upper  corner 
of  the  doorway,  rounded  on  the  free  sides,  and 
measured  roughly  two  feet  in  diameter — an  un- 
numbered host  of  ants.  Those  on  the  surface 
were  in  very  slow  but  constant  motion,  with  legs 
shifting  and  antennse  waving  continually.  This 
quivering  on  the  surface  of  the  swarm  gave  it 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    75 

the  appearance  of  the  fur  of  some  terrible  ani- 
mal— fur  blowing  in  the  wind  from  some  un- 
known, deadly  desert.  Yet  so  cohesive  was  the 
entire  mass,  that  I  sat  close  beneath  it  for  the 
best  part  of  two  days  and  not  more  than  a  dozen 
ants  fell  upon  me.  There  was,  however,  a  con- 
stant rain  of  egg-cases  and  pupa-skins  and  the 
remains  of  scorpions  and  grasshoppers,  the  resi- 
due of  the  booty  which  was  being  poured  in. 
These  wrappings  and  inedible  casing  were  all 
brought  to  the  surface  and  dropped.  This  was 
reasonable,  but  what  I  could  not  comprehend 
was  a  constant  falling  of  small  living  larvse.  How 
anything  except  army  ants  could  emerge  alive 
from  such  a  sinister  swarm  was  inconceivable. 
It  took  some  resolution  to  stand  up  under  the 
nest,  with  my  face  only  a  foot  away  from  this 
slowly  seething  mass  of  widespread  jaws.  But 
I  had  to  discover  where  the  falling  larv«  came 
from,  and  after  a  time  I  found  that  they  were 
immature  armv  ants.  Here  and  there  a  small 
worker  would  appear,  carrying  in  its  mandibles 
a  young  larva;  and  while  most  made  their  way 
through  the  maze  of  mural  legs  and  bodies  and 
ultimately  disappeared  aofain,  once  in  a  while  the 
burden  was  dropped  and  fell  to  the  floor  of  the 


76  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

outhouse.  I  can  account  for  this  only  by  pre- 
suming that  a  certain  percentage  of  the  nurses 
were  very  young  and  inexperienced  workers  and 
dropped  their  burdens  inadvertently.  There  was 
certainly  no  intentional  casting  out  of  these  off- 
spring, as  was  so  obviously  the  case  with  the 
debris  from  the  food  of  the  colony.  The  eleven 
or  twelve  ants  which  fell  upon  me  during  my 
watch  were  all  smaller  workers,  no  larger  ones 
losing  their  grip. 

While  recording  some  of  these  facts,  I  dropped 
my  pencil,  and  it  was  fully  ten  minutes  before 
the  black  mass  of  enraged  insects  cleared  away, 
and  I  could  pick  it  up.  Leaning  far  over  to 
secure  it,  I  was  surprised  by  the  cleanliness  of 
the  floor  around  my  chair.  My  clothes  and  note- 
paper  had  been  covered  with  loose  wings,  dry 
skeletons  of  insects  and  the  other  debris,  while 
hundreds  of  other  fragments  had  sifted  down 
past  me.  Yet  now  that  I  looked  seeingly,  the 
whole  area  was  perfectly  clean.  I  had  to  as- 
sume a  perfect  jack-knife  pose  to  get  my  face 
near  enough  to  the  floor;  but,  achieving  it,  I 
found  about  five  hundred  ants  serving  as  a  street- 
cleaning  squad.  They  roamed  aimlessly  about 
over  the  whole  floor,  ready  at  once  to  attack  any- 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN  77 

thing  of  mine,  or  any  part  of  my  anatomy  which 
might  come  close  enough,  but  otherwise  stim- 
ulated to  activity  only  when  they  came  across  a 
bit  of  rubbish  from  the  nest  high  overhead.  This 
was  at  once  seized  and  carried  off  to  one  of  two 
neat  piles  in  far  corners.  Before  night  these 
kitchen  middens  were  an  inch  or  two  deep  and 
nearly  a  foot  in  length,  composed,  literally,  of 
thousands  of  skins,  wings,  and  insect  armor. 
There  was  not  a  scrap  of  dirt  of  any  kind  which 
had  not  been  gathered  into  one  of  the  two  piles. 
The  nest  was  nine  feet  above  the  floor,  a  distance 
(magnifying  ant  height  to  our  own)  of  nearly 
a  mile,  and  yet  the  care  lavished  on  the  cleanli- 
ness of  the  earth  so  far  below  was  as  thorough 
and  well  done  as  the  actual  provisioning  of  the 
colony. 

As  I  watched  the  columns  and  the  swarm-nest 
hour  after  hour,  several  things  impressed  me; — 
the  absolute  silence  in  which  the  ants  worked; — 
such  ceaseless  activity  without  sound  one  asso- 
ciates only  with  a  cinema  film;  all  around  me 
was  tremendous  energy,  marvelous  feats  of 
achievement,  super-human  instincts,  the  ceaseless 
movement  of  tens  of  thousands  of  legionaries; 
yet  no  tramp  of  feet,  no  shouts,  no  curses,  no 


78  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

welcomes,  no  chanties.  It  was  uncanny  to  think 
of  a  race  of  creatures  such  as  these,  dreaded  by 
every  Hving  being,  wholly  dominant  in  their  con- 
tinent-wide sphere  of  action,  yet  born,  living  out 
their  lives,  and  dying,  dumb  and  blind,  with  no 
possibility  of  comment  on  life  and  its  fullness,  of 
censure  or  of  applause. 

The  sweeping  squad  on  the  floor  was  interest- 
ing because  of  its  limited  field  of  work  at  such 
a  distance  from  the  nest;  but  close  to  my  chair 
were  a  number  of  other  specialized  zones  of  activ- 
ity, any  one  of  which  would  have  afforded  a  fer- 
tile field  for  concentrated  study.  Beneath  the 
swarm  on  the  white  canvas,  I  noticed  two  large 
spots  of  dirt  and  moisture,  where  very  small  fiies 
were  collected.  An  examination  showed  that  this 
was  a  second,  nearer  dumping-ground  for  all  the 
garbage  and  refuse  of  the  swarm  which  could  not 
be  thrown  down  on  the  kitchen  middens  far  be- 
low. And  here  were  tiny  flies  and  other  insects 
acting  as  scavengers,  just  as  the  hosts  of  vultures 
gather  about  the  slaughter-house  of  Georgetown. 

The  most  interesting  of  all  the  phases  of  life 
of  the  ants'  home  town,  were  those  on  the  hori- 
zontal board  which  projected  from  the  beam  and 
stretched   for  several   feet   to   one   side   of  the 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    79 

swarm.  This  platform  was  almost  on  a  level 
with  my  eyes,  and  by  leaning  slightly  forward 
on  the  chair,  I  was  as  close  as  I  dared  go.  Here 
many  ants  came  from  the  incoming  columns,  and 
others  were  constantly  arriving  from  the  nest 
itself.  It  was  here  that  I  realized  my  good  for- 
tune and  the  achievement  of  my  desires,  when 
I  first  saw  an  army  ant  at  rest.  One  of  the 
first  arrivals  after  I  had  squatted  to  my  post, 
was  a  big  soldier  with  a  heavy  load  of  roach 
meat.  Instead  of  keeping  on  straight  up  the 
post,  he  turned  abruptly  and  dropped  his  load. 
It  was  instantly  picked  up  by  two  smaller  work- 
ers and  carried  on  and  upward  toward  the  nest. 
Two  other  big  fellows  arrived  in  quick  succes- 
sion, one  with  a  load  which  he  relinquished  to  a 
drogher-in-waiting.  Then  the  three  weary  war- 
riors stretched  their  legs  one  after  another  and 
commenced  to  clean  their  antenna?.  This  lasted 
only  for  a  moment,  for  three  or  four  tiny  ants 
rushed  at  each  of  the  larger  ones  and  began  as 
thorough  a  cleaning  as  masseurs  or  Turkish-bath 
attendants.  The  three  arrivals  were  at  once 
hustled  away  to  a  distant  part  of  the  board  and 
there  cleaned  from  end  to  end.  I  found  that 
the  focal  length  of  my  8-diameter  lens  was  just 


80  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

out  of  reach  of  the  ants,  so  I  focused  carefully 
on  one  of  the  soldiers  and  watched  the  entire 
process.  The  small  ants  scrubbed  and  scraped 
him  with  their  jaws,  licking  him  and  removing 
every  particle  of  dirt.  One  even  crawled  under 
him  and  worked  away  at  his  upper  leg- joints, 
for  all  the  world  as  a  mechanic  will  creep  under 
a  car.  Finally,  I  was  delighted  to  see  him  do 
what  no  car  ever  does,  turn  completely  over  and 
lie  quietly  on  his  back  with  his  legs  in  air,  while 
his  diminutive  helpers  overran  him  and  gradually 
got  him  into  shape  for  future  battles  and  forag- 
ing expeditions. 

On  this  resting-stage,  within  well-defined  lim- 
its, were  dozens  of  groups  of  two  cleaning  one 
another,  and  less  numerous  parties  of  the  tiny 
professionals  working  their  hearts  out  on  bat- 
tle-worn soldiers.  It  became  more  and  more  ap- 
parent that  in  the  creed  of  the  army  ants,  clean- 
liness comes  next  to  military  effectiveness. 

Here  and  there  I  saw  independent  individuals 
cleaning  themselves  and  going  through  the  most 
un-ant-like  movements.  They  scraped  their  jaws 
along  the  board,  pushing  forward  like  a  dog  try- 
ing to  get  rid  of  his  muzzle;  then  they  turned 
on  one  side  and  passed  the  opposite  legs  again 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN  81 

and  again  through  the  mandibles;  while  the  last 
performance  was  to  turn  over  on  their  backs  and 
roll  from  side  to  side,  exactly  as  a  horse  or  don- 
key loves  to  do. 

One  ant,  I  remember,  seemed  to  have  some- 
thing seriously  wrong.  It  sat  up  on  its  bent- 
under  abdomen  in  a  most  comical  fashion,  and 
was  the  object  of  solicitude  of  every  passing  ant. 
Sometimes  there  were  thirty  in  a  dense  group, 
pushing  and  jostling;  and,  like  most  of  our  city 
crowds,  many  seemed  to  stop  only  long  enough 
to  have  a  moment's  morbid  sight,  or  to  ask  some 
silly  question  as  to  the  trouble,  then  to  hurry  on. 
Others  remained,  and  licked  and  twiddled  him 
with  their  antennae  for  a  long  time.  He  wr-s 
in  this  position  for  at  least  twenty  minutes.  Mv 
curiosity  was  so  aroused  that  I  gathered  him  up 
in  a  vial,  whereat  he  became  wildly  excited  and 
promptly  regained  full  use  of  his  legs  and  facul- 
ties. Later,  when  I  examined  him  under  the 
lens,  I  could  find  nothing  whatever  wrong. 

Off  at  one  side  of  the  general  cleaning  and 
reconstruction  areas  was  a  pitiful  assemblage  of 
cripples  which  had  had  enough  energy  to  crawl 
back,  but  which  did  not  attempt,  or  were  not 
allowed,  to  enter  the  nest  proper.     Some  had 


82  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

one  or  two  legs  gone,  others  had  lost  an  antenna 
or  had  an  injured  body.  They  seemed  not  to 
know  what  to  do — wandering  around,  now  and 
then  giving  one  another  a  half-hearted  lick.  In 
the  midst  was  one  which  had  died,  and  two  others, 
each  badly  injured,  were  trying  to  tug  the  body 
along  to  the  edge  of  the  board.  This  they  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  after  a  long  series  of  efforts, 
and  down  and  down  fell  the  dead  ant.  It  was 
promptly  picked  up  by  several  kitchen-midden- 
ites  and  unceremoniously  thrown  on  the  pile  of 
nest-debris.  A  load  of  booty  had  been  dumped 
among  the  cripples,  and  as  each  wandered  close 
to  it,  he  seemed  to  regain  strength  for  a  moment, 
picked  up  the  load,  and  then  dropped  it.  The 
sight  of  that  which  symbolized  almost  all  their 
life-activity  aroused  them  to  a  momentary  for- 
getfulness  of  their  disabilities.  There  was  no 
longer  any  place  for  them  in  the  home  or  in  the 
columns  of  the  legionaries.  They  had  been  court- 
martialed  under  the  most  implacable,  the  most 
impartial  law  in  the  world — the  survival  of  the 
fit,  the  elimination  of  the  unfit. 

The  time  came  when  we  had  to  get  at  our 
stored  supplies,  over  which  the  army  ants  were 
such  an  effective  guard.     I  experimented  on  a 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN  83 

running  column  with  a  spray  of  ammonia  and 
found  that  it  created  merely  temporary  incon- 
venience, the  ants  running  back  and  forming  a 
new  trail.  Formaline  was  more  effective,  so  I 
sprayed  the  nest-swarm  with  a  fifty-per-cent  solu- 
tion, strong  enough,  one  would  think,  to  harden 
the  very  boards.  It  certainly  created  a  terrible 
commotion,  and  strings  of  the  ants,  two  feet  long, 
hung  dangling  from  the  nest.  The  heart  of  the 
colony  came  into  view,  with  thousands  of  eggs 
and  larvse,  looking  like  heaps  of  white  rice-grains. 
Every  ant  seized  one  or  the  other  and  sought 
escape  by  the  nearest  way,  while  the  soldiers  still 
defied  the  world.  The  gradual  disintegration  re- 
vealed an  interior  meshed  like  a  wasp's  nest, 
chambered  and  honeycombed  with  living  tubes 
and  walls.  Little  by  little  the  taut  guy-ropes, 
lathes,  braces,  joists,  all  sagged  and  melted  to- 
gether, each  cell-wall  becoming  dynamic,  now  ex- 
panding, now  contracting;  the  ceilings  vibrant 
with  waving  legs,  the  floors  a  seething  mass  of 
jaws  and  antenna.  By  the  time  it  was  dark,  the 
swarm  was  dropping  in  sections  to  the  floor. 

On  the  following  morning  new  surprises 
awaited  me.  The  great  mass  of  the  ants  had 
moved  in  the  night,  vi^nishing  w^ith  every  egg  and 


84  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

immature  larva;  but  there  was  left  in  the  corner 
of  the  fiat  board  a  swarm  of  about  one-quarter 
of  the  entire  number,  enshrouding  a  host  of  older 
larvae.  The  cleaning  zones,  the  cripples'  gather- 
ing-room, all  had  given  way  to  new  activities,  on 
the  flat  board,  down  near  the  kitchen  middens, 
and  in  every  horizontal  crack. 

The  cause  of  all  this  strange  excitement,  this 
braving  of  the  terrible  dangers  of  fumes  which 
had  threatened  to  destroy  the  entire  colony  the 
night  before,  suddenly  was  made  plain  as  I 
watched.  A  critical  time  was  at  hand  in  the  lives 
of  the  all-precious  larvae,  when  thej^  could  not 
be  moved — the  period  of  spmning,  of  beginning 
the  transformation  from  larvae  to  pupae.  This 
evidently  was  an  operation  which  had  to  take 
place  outside  the  nest  and  demanded  some  sort 
of  light  covering.  On  the  flat  board  were  sev- 
eral thousand  ants  and  a  dozen  or  more  groups 
of  full-grown  larvae.  Workers  of  all  sizes  were 
searching  everywhere  for  some  covering  for  the 
tender  immature  creatures.  Thej^  had  chewed 
up  all  available  loose  splinters  of  wood,  and  near 
the  rotten,  termite-eaten  ends,  the  sound  of  doz- 
ens of  jaws  gnawing  all  at  once  was  plainly  audi- 
ble.    This  unaccustomed,  unmilitary  labor  pro- 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    85 

duced  a  quantity  of  fine  sawdust,  which  was 
sprinkled  over  the  larvae.  I  had  made  a  parti- 
tion of  a  bit  of  a  British  officer's  tent  which  I  had 
used  in  India  and  China,  made  of  several  layers 
of  colored  canvas  and  cloth.  The  ants  found 
a  loose  end  of  this,  teased  it  out  and  unraveled 
it,  so  that  all  the  larvse  near  by  were  blanketed 
with  a  gay,  parti-colored  covering  of  fuzz. 

All  this  strange  work  was  hurried  and  car- 
ried on  under  great  excitement.  The  scores  of 
big  soldiers  on  guard  appeared  rather  ill  at  ease, 
as  if  they  had  wandered  by  mistake  into  the 
wrong  department.  Thej^  sauntered  about, 
bumped  into  larvae,  turned  and  fled.  A  constant 
stream  of  workers  from  the  nest  brought  hun- 
dreds more  larvae;  and  no  sooner  had  they  been 
planted  and  debris  of  sorts  sifted  over  them, 
than  they  began  spinning.  A  few  had  already 
swathed  themselves  in  cocoons — exceedingly  thin 
coverings  of  pinkish  silk.  As  this  took  place 
out  of  the  nest, — in  the  jungle  they  must  be  cov- 
ered with  wood  and  leaves.  The  vital  necessity 
for  this  was  not  apparent,  for  none  of  this  debris 
was  incorporated  into  the  silk  of  the  cocoons, 
which  were  clean  and  homogeneous.  Yet  the 
hundreds  of  ants  gnawed  and  tore  and  labored 


86  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  gather  this  little  dust,  as  if  their  very  lives 
depended  upon  it. 

With  my  hand-lens  focused  just  beyond  man- 
dible reach  of  the  biggest  soldier,  I  leaned  for- 
ward from  my  insulated  chair,  hovering  like  a 
great  astral  eye  looking  down  at  this  marvelously 
important  business  of  little  lives.  Here  were 
thousands  of  army  ants,  not  killing,  not  carrying 
booty,  nor  even  suspended  quiescent  as  organic 
molecules  in  the  structure  of  the  home,  yet  in 
feverish  activity  equaled  only  by  battle,  making 
ready  for  the  great  change  of  their  foster  off- 
spring. I  watched  the  very  first  thread  of  silk 
drawn  between  the  larva  and  the  outside  world, 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the  cocoon  was 
outlined  in  a  tissue-thin,  transparent  aura,  within 
which  the  tenant  could  be  seen  skilfully  weaving 
its  own  shroud. 

When  first  brought  from  the  nest,  the  larvge 
lay  quite  straight  and  still;  but  almost  at  once 
they  bent  far  over  in  the  spinning  position.  Then 
some  officious  worker  would  come  along,  and 
the  unfortunate  larva  would  be  snatched  up,  car- 
ried off,  and  jammed  down  in  some  neighboring 
empty  space,  like  a  bolt  of  cloth  rearranged  upon 
a  shelf.    Then  another  ant  would  approach,  an- 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN  87 

tennse  the  larva,  disapprove,  and  again  shift  its 
position.  It  was  a  real  survival  of  the  lucky, 
as  to  who  should  avoid  being  exhausted  by  kind- 
ness and  over-solicitude.  I  uttered  many  a 
chuckle  at  the  half-ensilked  unfortunates  being 
toted  about  like  mummies,  and  occasionally  giv- 
ing a  sturdy,  impatient  kick  which  upset  their 
tormentors  and  for  a  moment  created  a  little 
swirl  of  mild  excitement. 

There  was  no  order  of  packing.  The  larvaa 
were  fitted  together  anyway,  and  meagerly  cov- 
ered with  dust  of  wood  and  shreds  of  cloth.  One 
big  tissue  of  wood  nearly  an  inch  square  was  too 
great  a  temptation  to  be  let  alone,  and  during 
the  course  of  my  observation  it  covered  in  turn 
almost  every  group  of  larv«  in  sight,  ending  by 
being  accidentally  shunted  over  the  edge  and 
killing  a  worker  near  the  kitchen  middens. 
There  was  only  a  single  layer  of  larvae;  in  no 
case  were  they  piled  up,  and  when  the  platform 
became  crowded,  a  new  column  was  formed  and 
hundreds  taken  outside.  To  the  casual  eye  there 
was  no  difference  between  these  legionaries  and 
a  column  bringing  in  booty  of  insects,  eggs,  and 
pupae;  yet  here  all  was  solicitude,  never  a  bite 
too  severe,  or  a  blunder  of  undue  force. 


88  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

The  sights  I  saw  in  this  second  day's  acces- 
sible nest-swarm  would  warrant  a  season's  medi- 
tation  and  study,  but  one  thing  impressed  me 
above  all  others.  Sometimes,  when  I  carefully 
pried  open  one  section  and  looked  deep  wuthin, 
I  could  see  large  chambers  with  the  larvee  in 
piles,  besides  being  held  in  the  mandibles  of  the 
components  of  the  walls  and  ceilings.  Now  and 
then  a  curious  little  ghost-like  form  would  flit 
across  the  chamber,  coming  to  rest,  gnome-like, 
on  larva  or  ant.  Again  and  again  I  saw  these 
little  springtails  skip  through  the  very  scimitar 
mandibles  of  a  soldier,  while  the  workers  paid 
no  attention  to  them.  I  wondered  if  they  were 
not  quite  odorless,  intangible  to  the  ants,  in- 
visible guests  which  lived  close  to  them,  going 
where,  doing  what  they  willed,  yet  never  per- 
ceived by  the  thousands  of  inhabitants.  They 
seemed  to  live  in  a  kind  of  fourth  dimensional 
state,  a  realm  comparable  to  that  which  we  peo- 
ple with  ghosts  and  spirits.  It  was  a  most  un- 
canny, altogether  absorbing,  intensely  interesting 
relationship;  and  sometimes,  when  I  ponder  on 
some  general  aspect  of  the  great  jungle, — a  for- 
est of  greenheart,  a  mighty  rushing  river,  a  crash- 
ing, blasting  thunderstorm, — my  mind  suddenly 


THE  ARMY  ANTS'  HOME  TOWN    89 

reverts  by  way  of  contrast  to  the  tiny  ghosts 
of  springtails  flitting  silently  among  the  terrible 
living  chambers  of  the  army  ants. 

On  the  following  morning  I  expected  to 
achieve  still  greater  intimacy  in  the  Hves  of  tlie 
mummy  soldier  embryos ;  but  at  dawn  every  trace 
of  nesting  swarm,  larva?,  pupse  and  soldiers  was 
gone.  A  few  dead  workers  were  being  already 
carried  off  by  small  ants  which  never  would  have 
dared  approach  them  in  life.  A  big  blue  mor- 
pho  butterfly  flapped  slowly  past  out  of  the  jun- 
gle, and  in  its  wake  came  the  distant  notes — 
high  and  sharp — of  the  white-fronted  antbirds; 
and  I  knew  that  the  legionaries  were  again 
abroad,  radiating  on  their  silent,  dynamic  paths 
of  life  from  some  new  temporary  nest  deep  in 
Jhe  jungle. 


IV 
A  JUNGLE  BEACH 

A  JUXGLE  moon  first  showed  nie  my  beach. 
For  a  week  I  had  looked  at  it  in  blazing  sunlight, 
rvalked  across  it,  even  sat  on  it  in  the  intervals 
of  getting  wonted  to  the  new  laboratory;  yet  I 
had  not  perceived  it.  Colonel  Roosevelt  once 
said  to  me  that  he  would  rather  perceive  things 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  field-mouse,  than  be 
a  human  being  and  merely  see  them.  And  in  my 
case  it  was  when  I  could  no  longer  see  the  beach 
that  I  began  to  discern  its  significance. 

This  British  Guiana  beach,  just  in  front  of 
my  Kartabo  bungalow,  was  remarkably  diversi- 
fied, and  in  a  few  steps,  or  strokes  of  a  paddle, 
I  could  pass  from  clean  sand  to  mangroves  and 
muckamucka  swamp,  thence  to  out- jutting  rocks, 
and  on  to  the  Edge  of  the  World,  all  within  a  dis- 
tance of  a  hundred  yards.  For  a  time  my  beach 
walks  resulted  in  inarticulate  reaction.  After 
months  in  the  blindfolded  canyons  of  New  York's 
streets,  a  hemicircle  of  horizon,  a  hemisphere  o^ 

90 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  91 

sky,  and  a  vast  expanse  of  open  water  lent  itself 
neither  to  calm  appraisal  nor  to  impromptu  cuff- 
notes. 

It  was  recalled  to  my  mind  that  the  miracle 
of  sunrise  occurred  every  morning,  and  was  not 
a  rather  belated  alternation  of  illumination,  fol- 
lowing the  quenching  of  Broadway's  lights.  And 
the  moon  I  found  was  as  dependable  as  when  I 
timed  my  Himalayan  expeditions  by  her  shad- 
owings.  To  these  phenomena  I  soon  became  re- 
accustomed,  and  could  watch  a  bird  or  outwit  an 
insect  in  the  face  of  a  foreglow  and  silent  burst 
of  flame  that  shamed  all  the  barrages  ever  laid 
down.  But  cosmic  happenings  kept  drawing  my 
attention  and  paralyzing  my  activities  for  long 
afterward.  With  a  double  rainbow  and  four 
storms  in  action  at  once;  or  a  wall  of  rain  like 
sawn  steel  slowly  drawing  up  one  river  while  the 
IMazaruni  remains  in  full  sunlight ;  with  Pegasus 
galloping  toward  the  zenith  at  midnight  and  the 
Pleiades  just  clearing  the  Penal  Settlement,  I 
could  not  always  keep  on  dissecting,  or  record- 
ing, or  verifying  the  erroneousness  of  one  of  my 
recently  formed  theories. 

There  w\is  Thuban,  gazing  steadily  upon  my 
little  mahogany  bungalow,  as,  six  millenniumo 


92  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

ago,  he  had  shone  unfalteringly  down  the  little 
stone  tube  that  led  his  rays  into  the  Queen's 
Chamber,  in  the  very  heart  of  great  Cheops. 
Just  clearing  a  low  palm  was  the  present  North 
Star,  while,  high  above,  Vega  shone,  patiently 
waiting  to  take  her  place  half  a  milhon  years 
hence.  When  beginning  her  nightly  climb,  Vega 
drew  a  thin,  trembling  thread  of  argent  over  the 
still  water,  just  as  in  other  years  she  had  laid 
for  me  a  slender  silver  strand  of  wire  across 
frozen  snow,  and  on  one  memorable  night  traced 
the  ghost  of  a  reflection  over  damp  sand  near 
the  Nile — pale  as  the  wraiths  of  the  early  Pha- 
raohs. 

Low  on  the  eastern  horizon,  straight  outward 
from  my  beach,  was  the  beginning  and  -snd  of 
the  great  zodiac  band — the  golden  Hamal  of 
Aries  and  the  paired  stars  of  Pisces ;  and  behind, 
over  the  black  j.ungle,  glowed  the  Southern 
Cross.  But  night  after  night,  as  I  watched  on 
the  beach,  the  sight  which  moved  me  most  was 
the  dull  speck  of  emerald  mist,  a  merest  smudge 
on  the  slate  of  the  heavens, — the  spiral  nebula  in 
Andromeda, — a  universe  in  the  making,  of  a  size 
unthinkable  to  human  minds. 

The  power  of  my  jungle  beach  to  attract  and 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  93 

hold  attention  was  not  only  direct  and  sensory, 
— through  sight  and  sound  and  scent, — but  often 
indirect,  seemingly  by  occult  means.  Time  after 
time,  on  an  impulse,  I  followed  some  casual  line 
of  thought  and  action,  and  found  myself  at  last 
on  or  near  the  beach,  on  a  lead  that  eventually 
would  take  me  to  the  verge  or  into  the  water. 
Once  I  did  what  for  me  was  a  most  unusual 
thing.  I  woke  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with- 
out apparent  reason.  The  moonlight  was  pour^ 
ing  in  a  white  flood  through  the  bamboos,  and 
the  jungle  was  breathless  and  silent.  Through 
my  window  I  could  see  Jennie,  our  pet  monkey, 
lying  aloft,  asleep  on  her  little  verandah,  head 
cushioned  on  both  hands,  tail  curled  around  her 
dangling  chain,  as  a  spider  guards  her  web- 
strands  for  hint  of  disturbing  vibrations.  I  knew 
that  the  slightest  touch  on  that  chain  would 
awaken  her,  and  indeed  it  seemed  as  if  the  very 
thought  of  it  had  been  enough;  for  she  opened 
her  eyes,  sent  me  the  highest  of  insect-like  notes 
and  turned  over,  pushing  her  head  within  the 
shadow  of  her  little  house.  I  wondered  if  ani- 
mals, too,  were,  like  the  Malays  and  so  many 
savage  tribes,  afraid  of  the  moonlight — the 
"luna-cy"  danger  in  those  strange  color-strained 


94  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

rays,  whose  power  must  be  gi^eater  than  we  real- 
ize. Beyond  the  monkey  roosted  Robert,  the 
great  macaw,  wide-awake,  watching  me  with  all 
that  broadside  of  intensive  gaze  of  which  only 
a  parrot  is  capable. 

The  three  of  us  seemed  to  be  the  only  living 
things  in  the  world,  and  for  a  long  time  w^e-— 
monkey,  macaw,  and  man — listened.  Then  all 
but  the  man  became  uneasy.  The  monkey  raised 
herself  and  listened,  uncurled  her  tail,  shifted, 
and  listened.  The  macaw  drew  himself  up,  feath- 
ers close,  forgot  me,  and  listened.  They,  un- 
like me,  were  not  merely  listening — they  were 
hearing  something.  Then  there  came,  very 
slowly  and  deliberately,  as  if  reluctant  to  break 
through  the  silent  moonlight,  a  sound,  low  and 
constant,  impossible  to  identify,  but  clearly  audi- 
ble even  to  my  ears.  For  just  an  instant  longer 
it  held,  sustained  and  quivering,  then  swiftly  rose 
into  a  crashing  roar — the  sound  of  a  great  tree 
falling.  I  sat  up  and  heard  the  whole  long  de- 
scent ;  but  at  the  end,  after  the  moment  of  silence, 
there  was  no  deep  boom — the  sound  of  the  mighty 
bole  striking  and  rebounding  from  the  earth  it- 
self. I  wondered  about  this  for  a  while;  then  the 
monkey  and  I  went  to  sleep,  leaving  the  macaw 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  95 

alone  conscious  in  tlie  moonlight,  watching 
through  the  night  with  his  great  round,  yellow 
orbs,  and  thinking  the  thoughts  that  macaws  al- 
ways think  in  the  moonlight. 

The  next  day  the  macaw  and  the  monkey  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  midnight  sound,  but  I 
searched  and  found  why  there  was  no  final  boom. 
And  my  search  ended  at  my  beach.  A  bit  of 
overhanging  bank  had  given  way  and  a  tall  tree 
had  fallen  headlong  into  the  water,  its  roots 
sprawling  helplessly  in  mid-air.  Like  rats  de- 
serting a  sinking  ship,  a  whole  Noah's  ark  of 
tree-living  creatures  was  hastening  along  a  single 
cable  shorewards:  tree-crickets;  ants  laden  with 
eggs  and  larvae;  mantids  gesticulating  as  they 
walked,  like  old  men  who  mumble  to  themselves; 
woodroaches,  some  green  and  leaf-like,  others, 
facsimiles  of  trilobites — but  fleet  of  foot  and  with 
one  goal. 

What  was  a  catastrophe  for  a  tree  and  a  shift 
of  home  for  the  tenants  v/as  good  fortune  for 
me,  and  I  walked  easily  out  along  the  trunk  and 
branches  and  examined  the  strange  parasitic 
growths  and  the  homes  which  were  being  so  rap- 
idly deserted.  The  tide  came  up  and  covered  the 
lower  half  of  the  prostrate  tree,  drowning  what 


96  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

creatures  had  not  made  their  escape  and  quick- 
ening the  air-plants  with  a  false  rain,  which  in 
course  of  time  would  rot  their  very  hearts. 

But  the  first  few  days  were  only  the  overture 
of  changes  in  this  shift  of  conditions.  Tropic 
vegetation  is  so  tenacious  of  life  that  it  struggles 
and  adapts  itself  with  all  the  cunning  of  a  Jap- 
anese wrestler.  We  cut  saplings  and  thrust  them 
into  mud  or  the  crevices  of  rocks  at  low  tide  far 
from  shore,  to  mark  our  channel,  and  before  long 
v/e  have  buoys  of  foliage  banners  waving  from 
the  bare  poles  above  water.  We  erect  a  tall  bam- 
boo flagpole  on  the  bank,  and  before  long  our 
flag  is  almost  hidden  by  the  sprouting  leaves,  and 
the  pulley  so  blocked  that  we  have  occasionally 
to  lower  and  lop  it. 

So  the  fallen  tree,  still  gripping  the  nutritious 
bank  with  a  moiety  of  roots,  turned  slowly  in 
its  fibrous  stiffness  and  directed  its  life  and  sap 
and  hopes  upward.  During  the  succeeding  weeks 
I  watched  trunk  and  branches  swell  and  bud  out 
new  trunks,  new  branches,  guided,  controlled, 
by  gravity,  light,  and  warmth;  and  just  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  tides,  leaves  sprouted,  flowers 
opened  and  fruit  ripened.  Weeks  after  the  last 
slow  invertebrate  plodder  had  made  his  escape 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  97 

shorewards,  the  taut  liana  strand  was  again 
crowded  with  a  mass  of  passing  hfe — a  maze  of 
vines  and  creepers,  whose  tendrils  and  suckers 
reached  and  curled  and  pressed  onward,  fighting 
for  gangway  to  shore,  through  days  and  weeks, 
as  the  animal  life  which  preceded  them  had  made 
the  most  of  seconds  and  minutes. 

The  half -circle  of  exposed  raw  bank  became 
in  its  turn  the  center  of  a  myriad  activities. 
Great  green  kingfishers  began  at  once  to  bur- 
row; tiny  emerald  ones  chose  softer  places  up 
among  the  wreckage  of  wrenched  roots;  wasps 
came  and  chopped  out  bits  for  the  walls  and  par- 
titions of  their  cells;  spiders  hung  their  cobwebs 
between  ratlines  of  rootlets;  and  hummingbirds 
promptly  followed  and  plucked  them  from  their 
silken  nets,  and  then  took  the  nets  to  bind  their 
own  tiny  air-castles.  Finally,  other  interests  in- 
tervened, and  like  Jennie  and  Robert,  I 
gradually  forgot  the  tree  that  fell  without  an 
echo. 

In  the  jungle  no  action  or  organism  is  sep- 
arate, or  quite  apart,  and  this  thing  which  came 
to  the  three  of  us  suddenly  at  midnight  led  by 
devious  means  to  another  magic  phase  of  the 
shore. 


98  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

A  little  to  the  south  along  my  beach  is  the 
Edge  of  the  World.  At  least,  it  looks  very  much 
as  I  have  always  imagined  that  place  must  look, 
and  I  have  never  been  beyond  it;  so  that,  after 
listening  to  many  arguments  in  courts  of  law, 
and  hearing  the  reasoning  of  bolsheviki,  teeto- 
talers, and  pacifists,  I  feel  that  I  am  quite  rea- 
sonable as  human  beings  go.  And  best  of  all, 
it  hurts  no  one,  and  annoys  only  a  few  of  my 
scientific  friends,  who  feel  that  one  cannot  in- 
dulge in  such  ideas  at  the  wonderful  hour  of  twi- 
light, and  yet  at  eight  o'clock  the  following  morn- 
ing describe  with  impeccable  accuracy  the  bron- 
chial semi-rings,  and  the  intricate  mosaic  of  carti- 
lage which  characterizes  and  supports  the  mem^ 
branis  tympaniformis  of  Attila  tJiamnophiloldes; 
Si  dogma  which  halves  life  and  its  interests. 

The  Edge  of  the  World  has  always  meant  a 
place  where  usual  things  are  different;  and  my 
southern  stretch  of  beach  was  that,  because 
of  roots.  Whenever  in  digging  I  have  come 
across  a  root  and  seen  its  living  flesh,  per- 
haps pink  or  rose  or  pale  green,  so  far  under- 
ground, I  have  desired  to  know  roots  better ;  and 
now  I  found  my  opportunity.  I  walked  along 
the  proper  trail,  through  right  and  usual  trees, 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  99 

with  reasonable  foliage  and  normal  trunks,  and 
suddenly  I  stepped  down  over  the  Edge.  Over- 
head and  all  around  there  was  still  the  foliage. 
It  shut  out  the  sun  except  for  greenish,  moder- 
ated spots  and  beams.  The  branches  dipped  low 
in  front  over  the  water,  shutting  out  the  sky  ex- 
cept along  the  tops  of  the  cross-river  jungle. 
Thus  a  great  green-roofed  chamber  was  formed ; 
and  here,  between  jungle  and  the  water-level  of 
the  world,  was  the  Kingdom  of  the  Roots. 

Great  trees  had  in  their  youth  fallen  far  for- 
ward, undermined  by  the  water,  then  slowly 
taken  a  new  reach  upward  and  stretched  forth 
great  feet  and  hands  of  roots,  palms  pressing 
against  -the  mud,  curved  backs  and  thews  of  shoul- 
ders braced  against  one  another  and  the  drag 
of  the  tides.  Little  by  little  the  old  prostrate 
trunks  were  entirely  obliterated  by  this  fantastic 
netv/ork.  There  were  no  fine  fibers  or  rootlets 
here;  only  great  beams  and  buttresses,  bridges 
and  up-ended  spirals,  grown  together  or  spread- 
ing wide  apart.  Root  merged  with  trunk,  and 
great  boles  became  roots  and  then  boles  again  in 
this  unreasonable  land.  For  here,  in  place  of 
dam.p,  black  mold  and  soil,  water  alternated  with 
dark-shadowed  air :  and  so  I  was  able  for  a  tim_e 


100  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  live  the  life  of  a  root,  resting  quietly  among 
them,  watching  and  feeling  them,  and  moving 
very  slowly,  with  no  thought  of  time,  as  roots 
must. 

I  liked  to  wait  until  the  last  ripple  had  lapped 
against  the  sand  beneath,  and  then  slip  quietly 
in  from  the  margin  of  the  jungle  and  perch — 
like  a  great  tree-frog — on  some  convenient  shelf. 
Seumas  and  Brigid  would  have  enjoyed  it,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Leprechauns  seemed 
to  have  just  gone.  I  found  myself  usually  in 
a  little  room,  walled  with  high-arched,  thin  sheets 
of  living  roots,  some  of  which  would  form  solid 
planks  three  feet  wide  and  twelve  long,  and  only 
an  inch  or  two  in  thickness.  These  were  always 
on  edge,  and  might  be  smooth  and  sheer,  or  sud- 
denly sprout  five  stubby,  mittened  fingers,  or 
pairs  of  curved  and  galloping  legs — and  this 
thought  gave  substance  to  the  simile  which  had 
occurred  again  and  again:  these  trees  reminded 
me  of  centaurs  with  proud,  upright  man  torsos, 
and  great  curved  backs.  In  one,  a  root  dropped 
down  and  rested  on  the  back,  as  a  centaur  who 
turns  might  rest  his  hand  on  his  withers. 

When  I  chanced  upon  an  easy  perch,  and  a 
stray  idea  came  to  mind,  I  squatted  or  sat  or 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  101 

sprawled,  and  wrote,  and  strange  things  often 
happened  to  me.  Once,  while  writing  rapidly 
Qn  a  small  sheet  of  paper,  I  found  my  lines  grow- 
ing closer  and  closer  together  until  my  fingers 
cramped,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  change 
overlaid  the  thoughts  that  were  driving  hand  and 
pen.  I  then  realized  that,  without  thinking,  I 
had  been  following  a  succession  of  faint  lines^ 
cross-ruled  on  my  white  paper,  and  looking  up, 
I  saw  that  a  leaf -filtered  opening  had  reflected 
strands  of  a  spider-web  just  above  my  head,  and 
I  had  been  adapting  my  lines  to  the  narrow 
spaces,  my  chirography  controlled  by  cobweb 
Shaduws. 

The  first  unreality  of  the  roots  was  their  rigid- 
ity. I  stepped  from  one  slender  tendon  of  wood 
to  the  next,  expecting  a  bending  which  never 
occurred.  They  might  have  been  turned  to  stone, 
and  even  little  twigs  resting  on  the  bark  often 
proved  to  have  grown  fast.  And  this  was  the 
more  unexpected  because  of  the  grace  of  curve 
and  line,  fold  upon  fold,  with  no  sharp  angles, 
but  as  full  of  charm  of  contour  as  their  grays  and 
olives  were  harmonious  in  color.  Photographs 
showed  a  little  of  this;  sketches  revealed  more; 
but  the  great  splendid  things  themselves,  devoid 


102  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

of  similes  and  human  imagination,  were  soul- 
satisfying  in  their  simplicity. 

I  seldom  sat  in  one  spot  more  than  a  few  min- 
utes, but  climbed  and  shifted,  tried  new  seats, 
couches,  perches,  grips,  sprawling  out  along  the 
tops  of  two  parallel  monsters,  or  slipping  under 
their  bellies,  always  finding  some  easy  way  to 
swing  up  again.  Two  openings  just  permitted 
me  to  squeeze  through,  and  I  wondered  v/h ether, 
in  another  year,  or  ten,  or  fifty,  the  holes  would 
have  grown  smaller.  I  became  imbued  with  the 
quiet  joy  of  these  roots,  so  that  I  hated  to  touch 
the  ground.  Once  I  stepped  down  on  the  beach 
after  something  I  had  dropped,  and  the  soft 
yielding  of  the  sand  was  so  unpleasant  that  I 
did  not  afterwards  leave  this  strange  mid-zone 
until  I  had  to  return.  Unlike  Antfeus,  I  seemed 
to  gain  strength  and  poise  by  disassociation  with 
the  earth. 

Here  and  there  were  pockets  in  the  folds  of 
the  sweeping  draperies,  and  each  pocket  was 
worth  picking.  When  one  tried  to  paint  the 
roots,  these  pockets  seemed  made  expressly  to 
take  the  place  of  palette  cups,  except  that  now 
and  then  a  crab  resented  the  infusion  of  Hooker's 
green  with  his  Vandyke  brown  puddle,  and  seized 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  103 

the  end  of  the  brush.  The  crabs  were  worthy 
tenants  of  such  strange  architecture,  with  com- 
ical eyes  twiddling  on  the  end  of  their  stalks, 
and  their  white-mittened  fists  feinting  and  threat- 
ening as  I  looked  into  their  little  dark  rain  or 
tide-pools. 

I  found  three  pockets  on  one  wall,  which 
seemed  as  if  they  must  have  been  "salted"  for 
my  benefit;  and  in  them,  as  elsewhere  on  my 
beach,  the  two  extremes  of  life  met.  The  top- 
most one,  curiously  enough,  contained  a  small 
crab,  together  with  a  large  water-beetle  at  the 
farther  end.  Both  seemed  rather  self-conscious, 
and  there  was  no  hint  of  fraternizing.  The  bee- 
tle seemed  to  be  merely  existing  until  darkness, 
when  he  could  fly  to  more  water  and  better  com- 
pany; and  the  crab  appeared  to  be  waiting  for 
the  beetle  to  go. 

The  next  pocket  was  a  long,  narrow,  horizontal 
fold,  and  I  hoped  to  find  real  excitement  among 
its  aquatic  folk;  but  to  my  surprise  it  had  no 
bottom,  but  was  a  deep  chute  or  socket,  opening 
far  below  to  the  sand.  However,  this  was  not  my 
discovery,  and  I  saw  dimly  a  weird  little  head 
looking  up  at  me — a  gecko  lizard,  which  called 
this  crevice  home  and  the  crabs  neighbors.     I 


104  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

hailed  him  as  the  only  other  backboned  friend 
who  shared  the  root-world  with  me,  and  then 
listened  to  a  high,  sweet  tone,  which  came  forth 
in  swinging  rhythm.  It  took  some  time  for  my 
eyes  to  become  accustomed  to  the  semi-darkness, 
and  then  I  saw  what  the  gecko  saw — a  big  yel- 
low-bodied fly  humming  in  this  cavern,  and 
swinging  in  a  small  orbit  as  she  sang.  Now  and 
then  she  dashed  out  past  me  and  hovered  in  mid- 
air, when  her  note  sank  to  a  low,  dull  hum.  Back 
again,  and  the  sound  rose  and  fell,  and  gained 
ten  times  in  volume  from  the  echo  or  reverbera- 
tions. Each  time  she  passed,  the  little  lizard 
licked  his  chops  and  swallowed — a  sort  of  vica- 
rious expression  of  faith  or  desire;  or  was  he  in 
a  Christian  Science  frame  of  mind,  saying,  "My, 
how  good  that  fly  tasted !"  each  time  the  dipteron 
passed?  The  fly  was  just  as  inexplicable,  brav- 
ing danger  and  darkness  time  after  time,  to 
leave  the  sunshine  and  vibrate  in  the  dusk  to  the 
enormously  magnified  song  of  its  wings. 

With  eyes  that  had  forgotten  the  outside  light, 
I  leaned  close  to  the  opening  and  rested  my  fore- 
head against  the  lichens  of  the  wall  of  wood. 
The  fly  was  frightened  away,  the  gecko  slipped 
lower,  seemingly  without  effort,  and  in  a  hoi- 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  105 

lowed  side  of  the  cavernous  root  I  saw  a  mist, 
a  quivering,  so  tenuous  and  indistinct  that  at  first 
it  might  have  been  the  dancing  of  motes.  I  saw 
that  they  were  hving  creatures — the  most  deli- 
cate of  tiny  crane-flies — at  rest  looking  hkc  long- 
legged  mosquitoes.  Deep  within  this  root, 
farther  from  the  light  than  even  the  singing  fly 
had  ventured,  these  tiny  beings  whirled  madly 
in  mid-air — subterranean  dervishes,  using  up  en- 
ergy for  their  own  inexplicable  ends,  of  which 
one  very  interested  naturalist  could  make 
nothing. 

Three  weeks  afterward  I  happened  to  pass 
at  high  tide  in  the  canoe  and  peered  into  this 
pocket.  The  gecko  was  where  geckos  go  in  the 
space  of  three  weeks,  and  the  fly  also  had  van- 
ished, either  within  or  without  the  gecko.  But 
the  crane-flies  were  still  there:  to  my  roughly 
appraising  eyes  the  same  flies,  doing  the  same 
dance  in  exactly  the  same  place.  Three  weeks 
later,  and  again  I  returned,  this  time  intention- 
ally, to  see  whether  the  dance  still  continued; 
and  it  was  in  full  swing.  That  same  night  at 
midnight  I  climbed  down,  flashed  a  light  upon 
them,  and  there  they  whirled  and  vibrated, 
silently,  incredibly  rapid,  unceasingly. 


106  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

After  a  thousand  hours  all  the  surroundings 
had  changed.  New  leaves  had  sprouted,  flowers 
faded  and  turned  to  fruit,  the  moon  had  twice 
attained  her  full  brightness,  our  earth  and  sun 
and  the  whole  solar  system  had  swept  headlong 
a  full  two-score  million  miles  on  the  endless  swing 
toward  Vega.  Only  the  roots  and  the  crane- 
flies  remained.  A  thousand  hours  had  appar- 
ently made  no  difference  to  them.  The  roots 
might  have  been  the  granite  near  by,  fashioned 
by  primeval  earth-flame,  and  the  flies  but  vibrat- 
ing atoms  within  the  granite,  made  visible  by 
some  alchemy  of  elements  in  this  weird  Rim  of 
the  World. 

And  so  a  new  memory  is  mine;  and  when  one 
of  these  insects  comes  to  my  lamp  in  whatever 
part  of  the  world,  fluttering  weakly,  legs  break- 
ing off  at  the  shghtest  touch,  I  shall  cease  to 
worry  about  the  scientific  problems  that  loom  too 
great  for  my  brain,  or  about  the  imperfection 
of  whatever  I  am  doing,  and  shall  welcome  the 
crane-fly  and  strive  to  free  him  from  this  fatal 
passion  for  flame,  directing  him  again  into  the 
night;  for  he  may  be  looking  for  a  dark  pocket 
in  a  root,  a  pocket  on  the  Edge  of  the  World, 
where  crane-flies  may  vibrate  with  their  fellows 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  107 

in  an  eternal  dance.    And  so,  in  some  ordained 
way,  he  will  fulfil  his  destiny  and  I  acquire  merit. 

To  write  of  sunrises  and  moonlight  is  to  com- 
mit literary  harikiri;  but  as  that  terminates  life, 
so  may  I  end  this.  And  I  choose  the  morning 
and  the  midnight  of  the  sixth  of  August,  for 
reasons  both  greater  and  less  than  cosmic.  Early 
that  morning,  looking  out  from  the  beach  over 
the  Mazacuni,  as  we  called  the  union  of  the  two 
great  rivers,  there  was  wind,  yet  no  wind,  as  the 
sun  prepared  to  lift  above  the  horizon.  The  great 
soft-walled  jungle  was  clear  and  distinct.  Every 
reed  at  the  landing  had  its  unbroken  counter- 
part in  the  still  surface.  But  at  the  apex  of 
the  waters,  the  smoke  of  all  the  battles  in  the 
world  had  gathered,  and  upon  this  the  sun  slowly 
concentrated  his  powers,  until  he  tore  apart  the 
cloak  of  mist,  turning  the  dark  surface,  first  to 
oxidized,  and  then  to  shining  quicksilver.  In- 
stantaneously the  same  shaft  of  h'ght  touched  the 
tips  of  the  highest  trees,  and  as  if  in  response 
to  a  poised  baton,  there  broke  forth  that  wonder 
of  the  world — the  Zoroastrian  chorus  of  tens  of 
thousands  of  jungle  creatures. 

Over  the  quicksilver  surface  little  individual 


106  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

breezes  wandered  here  and  there.  I  could  clearly 
see  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  them,  and  one 
that  drifted  ashore  and  passed  me  felt  like  the 
lightest  touch  of  a  breath.  One  saw  only  the 
ripple  on  the  water;  one  thought  of  invisible 
wings  and  trailing  unseen  robes. 

With  the  increasing  warmth  the  v/ater-mist 
rose  slowly,  like  a  last  quiet  breath  of  night; 
and  as  it  ascended, — the  edges  changing  from 
silvery  gray  to  grayish  white,-^-it  gathered  close 
its  shredded  margins,  grew  smaller  as  it  rose 
higher,  and  finally  became  a  cloud.  I  watched 
it  and  wondered  about  its  fate.  Before  the  day 
was  past,  it  might  darken  in  its  might,  hurl  forth 
thunders  and  jagged  light,  and  lose  its  very  sub- 
stance in  down-poured  liquid.  Or,  after  drifting 
idly  high  in  air,  the  still-born  cloud  might  garb 
itself  in  rich  purple  and  gold  for  the  pageant  of 
the  west,  and  again  descend  to  brood  over  the 
coming  marvel  of  another  sunrise. 

The  tallest  of  bamboos  lean  over  our  low,  lazy 
spread  of  bungalow ;  and  late  this  very  night,  in 
the  full  moonlight,  I  leave  my  cot  and  walk  down 
to  the  beach  over  a  shadow  carpet  of  Japanese 
filigree.  The  air  over  the  white  sand  is  as  quiet 
and  feelingless  to  my  skin  as  complete,  comfort- 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  109 

able  clothing.  On  one  side  is  the  dark  river;  on 
the  other,  the  darker  jungle  full  of  gentle  rus- 
tlings, low,  velvety  breaths  of  sound;  and  I  slip 
into  the  water  and  swini  out,  out,  out.  Then  I 
turn  over  and  float  along  with  the  almost  tangi- 
ble moonlight  flooding  down  on  face  and  water. 
Suddenly  the  whole  air  is  broken  by  the  chorus 
of  big  red  baboons,  which  rolls  and  tumbles  to- 
ward me  in  masses  of  sound  along  the  surface 
and  goes  trembling,  echoing  on  over  shore  and 
jungle,  till  hurled  back  by  the  answering  chorus 
of  another  clan.  It  stirs  one  to  the  marrow,  for 
there  is  far  more  in  it  than  the  mere  roaring  of 
monkeys;  and  I  turn  uneasily,  and  slowly  surge 
back  toward  the  sand,  overhand  now,  making 
companionable  splashes. 

And  then  again  I  stop,  treading  water  softly, 
"with  face  alone  between  river  and  sky;  for  the 
monkeys  have  ceased,  and  very  faint  and  low, 
but  blended  in  wonderful  minor  harmony,  comes 
another  chorus — from  three  miles  down  the  river: 
the  convicts  singing  hymns  in  their  cells  at  mid- 
night. And  I  ground  gently  and  sit  in  the  sil- 
vered shadows  with  little  bewildered  shrimps 
flicking  against  me,  and  unlanguaged  thoughts 
come  and  go — impossible  similes,  too  poignant 


110  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

phrases  to  be  stopped  and  fettered  with  words, 
and  I  am  neither  scientist  nor  man  nor  naked 
organism,  but  just  mind.  With  the  coming  of 
silence  I  look  around  and  again  consciously  take 
in  the  scene.  I  am  very  glad  to  be  alive,  and 
to  know  that  the  possible  dangers  of  jungle  and 
water  have  not  kept  me  armed  and  indoors.  I 
feel,  somehow,  as  if  my  very  daring  and  gentle 
slipping-off  of  all  signs  of  dominance  and  pro- 
tection on  entering  into  this  realm  had  made 
friends  of  all  the  rare  but  possible  serpents  and 
scorpions,  sting-rays  and  perai,  vampires  and 
electric  eels.  For  a  while  I  know  the  happiness 
of  Mowgli. 

And  I  think  of  people  who  would  live  more 
joyful  lives  in  dense  communities,  who  would  be 
more  tolerant,  and  more  certain  of  straightfor- 
ward friendship,  if  they  could  have  as  a  back- 
ground a  fundamental  hour  of  living  such  as  this, 
a  leaven  for  the  rest  of  what,  in  comparison,  seems 
mere  existence. 

At  last  I  go  back  between  the  bamboos  and 
their  shadows,  from  unreal  reality  into  a  definite- 
ness  of  cot  and  pajamas  and  electric  torch.  But 
wild  nature  still  keeps  touch  with  me;  for  as  I 
write  these  lines,  curled  up  on  the  edge  of  the 


A  JUNGLE  BEACH  111 

cot,  two  vampires  hawk  back  and  forth  so  close 
that  the  wind  from  their  wings  dries  my  ink. 
And  the  soundness  of  my  sleep  is  such  that  time 
does  not  exist  between  their  last  crepuscular 
squeak  and  the  first  wiry  twittering  of  a  blue 
tanager,  in  full  sunshine,  from  a  palm  overhang- 
ing my  beach. 


V 
A  BIT  OF  USELESSNESS 

A  MOST  admirable  servant  of  mine  once  risked 
his  life  to  reach  a  magnificent  Bornean  orchid, 
and  tried  to  poison  me  an  hour  later  when  he 
thought  I  was  going  to  take  the  plant  away  from 
him.  This  does  not  mean  necessarily  that  we 
should  look  with  suspicion  upon  all  gardeners 
and  lovers  of  flowers.  It  emphasizes,  rather,  the 
fact  of  the  universal  and  deep-rooted  apprecia- 
tion of  the  glories  of  the  vegetable  kingdom. 
Long  before  the  fatal  harvest  time,  I  am  certain 
that  Eve  must  have  plucked  a  spray  of  apple 
blossoms  with  perfect  impunity. 

A  vast  amount  of  bad  poetry  and  a  much  less 
quantity  of  excellent  verse  has  been  written  about 
flowers,  much  of  which  follows  to  the  letter  Mark 
Twain's  injunction  about  Truth.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  relations  existing  between  the 
honeysuckle  and  the  bee  are  basely  practical  and 
wholly  selfish.  A  butterfly's  admiration  of  a 
flower  is  no  whit  less  than  the  blossom's  conscious 

112 


A  BIT  OF  USELESSNESS  113 

appreciation  of  its  own  beauties.  There  are  ants 
whicli  spend  most  of  their  life  making  gardens, 
knowing  the  uses  of  fertilizers,  mulching,  plant- 
ing seeds,  exercising  patience,  recognizing  the 
time  of  ripeness,  and  gathering  the  edible  fruit. 
But  this  is  underground,  and  the  ants  are  blind. 

There  is  a  bird,  however — the  bower  bird  of 
Australia — which  appears  to  take  real  delight  in 
bright  things,  especially  pebbles  and  flowers  for 
their  own  sake.  Its  little  lean-to,  or  bower  of 
sticks,  which  has  been  built  in  our  own  Zoologi- 
cal Park  in  New  York  City,  is  fronted  by  a 
cleared  space,  which  is  usually  mossy.  To  this 
it  brings  its  colorful  treasures,  sometimes  a  score 
of  bright  star  blossoms,  which  are  renewed  when 
faded  and  replaced  by  others.  All  this  has,  prob- 
ably, something  to  do  with  courtship,  which 
should  inspire  a  sonnet. 

From  the  first  pre-Egyptian  who  crudely 
scratched  a  lotus  on  his  dish  of  clay,  down  to 
the  jolly  Feckenham  men,  the  human  race  has 
given  to  flowers  something  more  than  idle  curi- 
osity, something  less  than  mere  earnest  of  fruit 
or  berry. 

At  twelve  thousand  feet  I  have  seen  one  of 
my  Tibetans  with  nothing  but  a  few  shreds  of 


114  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

straw  between  his  bare  feet  and  the  snow,  probe 
around  the  south  edge  of  melting  drifts  until  he 
found  brilliant  little  primroses  to  stick  behind 
his  ears.  I  have  been  ushered  into  the  little-used, 
musty  best-parlor  of  a  New  England  farmhouse, 
and  seen  fresh  vases  of  homely,  old-fashioned 
flowers — so  recently  placed  for  my  edification, 
that  drops  of  water  still  glistened  like  dewdrops 
on  the  dusty  plush  mat  beneath.  I  have  sat  in 
the  seat  of  honor  of  a  Dyak  communal  house, 
looked  up  at  the  circle  of  all  too  recent  heads, 
and  seen  a  gay  flower  in  each  hollow  eye  socket, 
placed  there  for  my  approval.  With  a  cluster 
of  colored  petals  swaying  in  the  breeze,  one  may 
at  times  bridge  centuries  or  span  the  earth. 

And  now  as  I  sit  writing  these  words  in  my 
jungle  laboratory,  a  small  dusky  hand  steals 
around  an  aquarium  and  deposits  a  beautiful 
spray  of  orch'ds  on  my  table.  The  little  face 
appears,  and  I  can  distinguish  the  high  cheek 
bones  of  Indian  blood,  the  flattened  nose  and 
slight  kink  of  negro,  and  the  faint  trace  of  white 
— probably  of  som.e  long  forgotten  Dutch  sailor, 
who  came  and  went  to  Guiana,  while  New  York 
City  was  still  a  browsing  ground  for  moose. 

So  neither  race  nor  age  nor  melange  of  blood 


A  BIT  OF  USELESSNESS  115 

can  eradicate  the  love  of  flowers.  It  would  be 
a  wonderful  thing  to  know  about  the  first  garden 
that  ever  was,  and  I  wish  that  "Best  Beloved" 
had  demanded  this.  I  am  sure  it  was  long  before 
the  day  of  dog,  or  cow,  or  horse,  or  even  she  who 
walked  alone.  The  only  way  we  can  imagine 
it,  is  to  go  to  some  wild  part  of  the  earth,  where 
are  fortunate  people  who  have  never  heard  of 
seed  catalogs  or  lawn  mowers. 

Here  :n  British  Guiana  I  can  run  the  whole 
gamut  of  gardens,  within  a  few  miles  of  where 
I  am  writing.  A  mile  above  my  laboratory  up- 
river,  is  the  thatched  benab  of  an  Akawai  Indian 
— whose  house  is  a  roof,  whose  rooms  are  ham- 
mocks, whose  estate  is  the  jungle.  Degas  can 
speak  English,  and  knows  the  use  of  my  28- 
gauge  double  barrel  well  enough  to  bring  us  a 
constant  supply  of  delicious  bushmeat — peccary, 
deer,  monkey,  bush  turkeys  and  agoutis.  But 
Grandmother  has  no  language  but  her  native 
Akawai.  She  is  a  good  friend  of  mine,  and  we 
hold  long  conversations,  neither  of  us  bothering 
with  the  letter,  but  only  the  spirit  of  communi- 
cation. She  is  a  tiny  person,  bowed  and  wrin- 
kled as  only  an  old  Indian  squaw  can  be,  al- 
ways jolly  and  chuckling  to  herself,   although 


116  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Degas  tells  me  that  the  world  is  gradually  dark- 
ening for  her.  And  she  vainly  begs  me  to  clear 
the  film  which  is  slowly  closing  over  her  eyes. 
She  labors  in  a  true  landscape  garden — the  small 
circle  wrested  with  cutlass  and  fire  from  the  great 
jungle,  and  kept  free  only  by  constant  cutting 
of  the  vines  and  lianas  which  creep  out  almost 
in  a  night,  like  sinister  octopus  tentacles,  to  stran- 
gle the  strange  upstarts  and  re  jungle  the  bit  of 
sunlit  glade. 

Although  to  the  eye  a  mass  of  tangled  vege- 
tation, an  Indian's  garden  may  be  resolved  into 
several  phases — all  utterly  practical,  with  color 
and  flowers  as  mere  by-products.  First  come  the 
provisions,  for  if  Degas  were  not  hunting  for  me, 
and  eating  my  rations,  he  would  be  out  with  bow 
and  blowpipe,  or  fish-hooks,  while  the  women 
worked  all  day  in  the  cassava  field.  It  is  his  part 
to  clear  and  burn  the  forest,  it  is  hers  to  grub  up 
the  rich  mold,  to  plant  and  to  weed.  Plots  and 
beds  are  unknown,  for  in  every  direction  are 
fallen  trees,  too  large  to  burn  or  be  chopped  up, 
and  great  sprawling  roots.  Between  these, 
sprouts  of  cassava  and  banana  are  stuck,  and  the 
yams  and  melons  which  form  the  food  of  these 
primitive  people.     Cassava  is  as  vital  to  these 


A  BIT  OF  USELESSNESS  117 

Indians  as  the  air  they  breathe.  It  is  their  wheat 
and  corn  and  rice,  their  soup  and  salad  and  des- 
sert, their  ice  and  their  wine,  for  besides  being 
their  staple  food,  it  provides  casareep  which  pre- 
serves their  meat,  and  piwarie  which,  like  excel- 
lent wine,  brightens  life  for  them  occasionally,  or 
dims  it  if  overindulged  in — which  is  equally  true 
of  food,  or  companionship,  or  the  oxygen  in  the 
air  we  breathe. 

Besides  this  cultivation,  Grandmother  has  a 
small  group  of  plants  which  are  only  indirectly 
concerned  with  food.  One  is  hunami,  whose 
leaves  are  pounded  into  pulp,  and  used  for  poi- 
soning the  water  of  jungle  streams,  with  the  sur- 
prising result  that  the  fish  all  leap  out  on  the 
bank  and  can  be  gathered  as  one  picks  up  nuts. 
When  I  first  visited  Grandmother's  garden,  she 
had  a  few  pitiful  little  cotton  plants  from  whose 
stunted  bolls  she  extracted  every  fiber  and  made 
a  most  excellent  thread.  In  fact,  when  she  made 
some  bead  aprons  for  me,  she  rejected  my  spool 
of  cotton  and  chose  her  own,  twisted  between 
thumb  and  finger.  I  sent  for  seed  of  the  big 
Sea  Island  cotton,  and  her  face  almost  un- 
wrinkled  with  delight  when  she  saw  the  packets 
with  seed  larger  than  she  had  ever  kncrvvn. 


118  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Far  off  in  one  corner  I  make  certain  I  have 
found  beauty  foi  beauty's  sake,  a  group  of  ex- 
quisite caladiums  and  amaryllis,  beautiful  flow- 
ers and  rich  green  leaves  with  spots  and  slashes 
of  white  and  crimson.  But  this  is  the  hunter's 
garden,  and  Grandmother  has  no  part  in  it,  per- 
haps is  not  even  allowed  to  approach  it.  It  is 
the  beena  garden — the  charms  for  good  luck  in 
huntino:.  The  similarity  of  the  leaves  to  the  head 
or  other  parts  of  deer  or  peccary  or  red-gilled 
fish,  decides  the  most  favorable  choice,  and  the 
acrid,  smarting  juice  of  the  tuber  rubbed  into  the 
skin,  or  the  hooks  and  arrows  anointed,  is  con- 
sidered sufficient  to  produce  the  desired  result. 
Long  ago  I  discovered  that  this  demand  for  im- 
mediate physical  sensation  was  a  necessary  corol- 
lary of  doctoring,  so  I  always  give  two  medicines 
— one  for  its  curative  properties,  and  the  other, 
bitter,  sour,  acid  or  anything  disagreeable,  for 
arousing  and  sustaining  faith  in  my  ability. 

The  Indian's  medicine  plants,  like  his  true 
name,  he  keeps  to  himself,  and  although  I  feel 
certain  that  Grandmother  had  somewhere  a 
toothache  bush,  or  pain  leaves — yarbs  and  sim- 
ples for  various  miseries — X  could  never  discover 
them.    Half  a  dozen  tall  tobacco  plants  brought 


A  BIT  OF  USELESSNESS  119 

from  the  far  interior,  eked  out  the  occasional 
tins  of  cigarettes  in  which  Degas  indulged,  and 
always  the  flame-colored  little  buck-peppers 
lightened  up  the  shadow^s  of  the  henab,  as  hot 
to  the  palate  as  their  color  to  the  eye. 

One  day  just  as  I  was  leaving,  Grandmother 
led  me  to  a  palm  nearby,  and  to  one  of  its  an- 
cient frond-sheaths  was  fastened  a  small  brown 
branch  to  which  a  few  blue-green  leaves  were 
attached.  I  had  never  seen  anything  like  it.  She 
mumbled  and  touched  it  with  her  shriveled,  bent 
fingers.  I  could  understand  nothing,  and  sent 
for  Degas,  who  came  and  explained  grudgingly, 
''Me  no  know  what  for — toko-nook  just  name — 
have  got  smell  when  yellow."  And  so  at  last  I 
found  the  bit  of  uselessness,  which,  carried  on- 
ward and  developed  in  ages  to  come,  as  it  had 
been  elsewhere  in  ages  past,  was  to  evolve  into 
botany,  and  back-yard  gardens,  and  greenhouses, 
and  wars  of  roses,  and  beautiful  paintings,  and 
music  with  a  soul  of  its  own,  and  verse  more 
than  human.  To  Degas  the  toko-nook  was  "just 
name,"  "and  it  was  nothing  more."  But  he  was 
forgiven,  for  he  had  all  unwittingly  sowed  the 
seeds  of  religion,  through  faith  in  his  glowing 
caladiums.     But  Grandmother,  though  all  tlie 


120  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

sunlight  seemed  dusk,  and  the  dawn  but  as  night, 
yet  clung  to  her  little  plant,  whose  glory  was 
that  it  was  of  no  use  whatsoever,  but  in  months 
to  come  would  be  yellow,  and  would  smell. 

Farther  dow^n  river,  in  the  small  hamlets  of 
the  bovianders — the  people  of  mixed  blood — the 
practical  was  still  necessity,  but  almost  every 
thatched  and  wattled  hut  had  its  swinging  orchid 
branch,  and  perhaps  a  hideous  painted  tub  with 
picketed  rim,  in  which  grew  a  golden  splash  of 
croton.  This  ostentatious  floweritis  might  fur- 
nish a  theme  for  a  wholly  new  phase  of  the  sub- 
ject— for  in  almost  every  respect  these  people 
are  less  worthy  human  beings — physically,  men- 
tally and  morally — than  the  Indians.  But  one 
cannot  shift  literary  overalls  for  philosophical 
paragraphs  in  mid-article,  so  let  us  take  the  lit- 
tle river  steamer  down  stream  for  forty  miles 
to  the  coast  of  British  Guiana,  and  there  see  what 
Nature  herself  does  in  the  way  of  gardens.  We 
drive  twenty  miles  or  more  before  we  reach 
Georgetown,  and  the  sides  of  the  road  are  lined 
for  most  of  the  distance  with  huts  and  hovels  of 
East  Indian  coolies  and  native  Guiana  negroes. 
Some  are  made  of  boxes,  others  of  bark,  more 
of  thatch  or  rough-hewn  boards  and  barrel  staves. 


A  BIT  OF  USELESSNESS  121 

and  some  of  split  bamboo.  But  they  resemble 
one  another  in  several  respects — all  are  ram- 
shackle, all  lean  with  the  grace  of  Pisa,  all  have 
shutters  and  doors,  so  that  at  night  they  may  be 
hermetically  closed,  and  all  are  half -hidden  in  the 
folds  of  a  curtain  of  flowers.  The  most  shiftless, 
unlovely  hovel,  poised  ready  to  return  to  its  orig- 
inal chemical  elements,  is  embowered  in  a  mosaic 
of  color,  which  in  a  northern  garden  would  be 
worth  a  king's  ransom — or  to  be  strictly  modern, 
should  I  not  say  a  labor  foreman's  or  a  comrade's 
ransom ! 

The  deep  trench  which  extends  along  the  front 
of  these  sad  dwellings  is  sometimes  blue  with  wa- 
ter hyacinths ;  next  the  water  disappears  beneath 
a  maze  of  tall  stalks,  topped  with  a  pink  mist  of 
lotus;  then  come  floating  lilies  and  more  hya- 
cinths. Wherever  there  is  sufficient  clear  water, 
the  wonderful  curve  of  a  cocoanut  palm  is  etched 
upon  it,  reflection  meeting  palm,  to  form  a  den- 
dritic pattern  unequaled  in  human  devising. 

Over  a  hut  of  rusty  oil-cans,  bougainvillia 
stretches  its  glowing  branches,  sometimes  cerise, 
sometimes  purple,  or  allamanders  fill  the  air  with 
a  golden  haze  from  their  glowing  search-lights, 
either  hiding  the  huts  altogether,  or  softening 


122  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

their  details  into  picturesque  ruins.  I  remember 
one  coolie  dwelling  which  was  dirtier  and  less 
habitable  than  the  meanest  stable,  and  all  around 
it  were  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  frangipanni 
blooms — the  white  and  gold  temple  flowers  of 
the  East — giving  forth  of  scent  and  color  all  that 
a  flower  is  capable,  to  alleviate  the  miserable  blot 
of  human  construction.  Now  and  then  a  flam- 
boyant tree  comes  into  view,  and  as,  at  night,  the 
head-lights  of  an  approaching  car  eclipse  all  else, 
so  this  tree  of  burning  scarlet  draws  eye  and 
mind  from  adjacent  human-made  squalor.  In 
all  the  tropics  of  the  world  I  scarcely  remember 
to  have  seen  more  magnificent  color  than  in  these 
unattended,  wilful-grown  gardens. 

In  tropical  cities  such  as  Georgetown,  there 
are  very  beautiful  private  gardens,  and  the  pub- 
lic one  is  second  only  to  that  of  Java.  But  for 
the  most  part  one  is  as  conscious  of  the  very 
dreadful  borders  of  brick,  or  bottles,  or  conchs,  as 
of  the  flowers  themselves.  Some  one  who  is  a 
master  gardener  will  some  day  write  of  the  pos- 
sibilities of  a  tropical  garden,  w^hich  will  hold 
the  reader  as  does  desire  to  behold  the  gardens  of 
Carcassonne  itself. 


VI 

GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS 

Again  the  Guiana  jungle  comes  wonderfully 
to  the  eye  and  mysteriously  to  the  mind;  again 
my  khakis  and  sneakers  are  skin-comfortable; 
again  I  am  squatted  on  a  pleasant  mat  of  leaves 
in  a  miniature  gorge,  miles  back  of  my  Kartabo 
bungalow.     Life  elsewhere  has  already  become 
unthinkable.     I  recall  a  place  boiling  with  wor- 
ried people,  rent  with  unpleasing  sounds,  and 
beset  with  unsatisfactory  pleasures.    In  less  than 
a  year  I  shall  long  for  a  sight  of  these  worried 
people,  my  ears  will  strain  to  catch  the  unpleas- 
ing sounds,  and  I  shall  plunge  with  joy  into  the 
unsatisfactory  pleasures.     To-day,  however,  all 
these  have  passed  from  mind,  and  I  settle  down 
another  notch,  head  snuggled  on  knees,  and  sway, 
ielephant-fashion,  with  sheer  joy,  as  a  musky,  ex- 
citing odor   comes   drifting,   apparently  by   its 
own  volition,  down  through  the  windless  little 
gorge. 

If  I  permit  a  concrete,  scientific  reaction,  I 


124  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

must  acknowledge  the  source  to  be  a  passing  bug, 
— a  giant  bug, — related  distantly  to  our  malodor- 
ous northern  squash-bug,  but  emitting  a  scent  as 
different  as  orchids'  breath  from  grocery  garlic. 
But  I  accept  this  delicate  volatility  as  simply  an- 
other pastel-soft  sense-impression — as  an  ear- 
nest of  the  worthy,  smelly  things  of  old  jungles. 
There  is  no  breeze,  no  slightest  shift  of  air-par- 
ticles; yet  down  the  gorge  comes  this  cloud, — a 
cloud  unsensible  except  to  nostrils, — eddying  as 
if  swirling  around  the  edges  of  leaves,  riding  on 
the  air  as  gently  as  the  low,  distant  crooning  of 
great,  sleepy  jungle  doves. 

With  two  senses  so  perfectly  occupied,  sight 
becomes  superfluous  and  I  close  my  eyes.  And 
straightway  the  scent  and  the  murmur  usurp  my 
whole  mind  with  a  vivid  memory.  I  am  still 
squatting,  but  in  a  dark,  fragrant  room;  and  the 
murmur  is  still  of  doves ;  but  the  room  is  in  the 
cool,  still  heart  of  the  Queen's  Golden  Monastery 
in  northern  Burma,  within  storm-sound  of  Tibet, 
and  the  doves  are  perched  among  the  glitter  and 
tinkling  bells  of  the  pagoda  roofs.  I  am  squat- 
ting very  quietly,  for  I  am  tiredj  after  photo- 
graphing carved  peacocks  and  junglefowl  in  the 
marvelous    fretwork    of    the    outer    balconies. 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         125 

There  are  idols  all  about  me — or  so  it  would  ap- 
pear to  a  missionary;  for  my  part,  I  can  think 
only  of  the  wonderful  face  of  the  old  Lama  who 
sits  near  me,  a  face  peaceful  with  the  something 
for  which  most  of  us  would  desert  what  we  are 
doing,  if  by  that  we  could  attain  it.  Near  him 
are  two  young  priests,  sitting  as  motionless  as 
the  Buddha  in  front  of  them. 

After  a  half -hour  of  the  strange  thing  that  we 
call  time,  the  Lama  speaks,  very  low  and  very 
softly : 

"The  surface  of  the  mirror  is  clouded  with  a 
breath." 

Out  of  a  long  silence  one  of  the  neophytes  re- 
plies, *'The  mirror  can  be  wiped  clear." 

Again  the  world  becomes  incense  and  doves, — 
in  the  silence  and  peace  of  that  monastery,  it 
may  have  been  a  few  minutes  or  a  decade, — and 
the  second  Tibetan  whispers,  "There  is  no  need 
to  wipe  the  mirror." 

When  I  have  left  behind  the  world  of  inhar- 
monious colors,  of  polluted  waters,  of  soot- 
stained  walls  and  smoke-tinged  air,  the  green  of 
jungle  comes  like  a  cooling  bath  of  delicate  tints 
and  shades.  I  think  of  all  the  green  things  I  have 
loved — of  malachite  in  matrix  and  table-top;  of 


126  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

jade,  not  factory-hewn  baubles,  but  age-mel- 
lowed signets,  fashioned  by  lovers  of  their  craft, 
and  seasoned  by  the  toying  yellow  fingers  of  gen- 
erations of  forgotten  Chinese  emperors — jade, 
as  Dunsany  would  say,  of  the  exact  shade  of  the 
right  color.  I  think  too,  of  dainty  emerald 
scarves  that  are  seen  and  lost  in  a  flash  at  a  dance; 
of  the  air-cooled,  living  green  of  curling  break- 
ers; of  a  lonely  light  that  gleams  to  starboard  of 
an  unknown  passing  vessel,  and  of  the  transpar- 
ent green  of  northern  lights  that  flicker  and  play 
on  winter  nights  high  over  the  garish  glare  of 
Broadway. 

Now,  in  late  afternoon,  when  I  opened  my  eyes 
in  the  little  gorge,  the  soft  green  vibrations 
merged  insensibly  with  the  longer  waves  of  the 
doves'  voices  and  with  the  dying  odor.  Soon  the 
green  alone  was  dominant;  and  when  I  had  fin- 
ished thinking  of  pleasant,  far-off  green  things, 
the  wonderful  emerald  of  my  great  tree-frog  of 
last  year  came  to  mind, — Gawain  the  mysterious, 
— and  I  wondered  if  I  should  ever  solve  his  life. 

In  front  of  me  was  a  little  jungle  rainpool. 
At  the  base  of  the  miniature  precipice  of 
the  gorge,  this  pool  was  a  thing  of  clay.  It 
was  milky  in  consistence,  from  the  roiling  of 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS        127 

suspended  clay;  and  when  the  surface  caught  a 
glint  of  light  and  reflected  it,  only  the  clay  and 
mud  walls  about  came  to  the  eye.  It  was  a  very 
regular  pool,  a  man's  height  in  diameter,  and,  for 
all  I  knew,  from  two  inches  to  two  miles  deep.  I 
became  absorbed  in  a  sort  of  subaquatic  mirage, 
in  which  I  seemed  to  distinguish  reflections  be- 
neath the  surface.  My  eyes  refocused  with  a 
jerk,  and  I  realized  that  something  had  uncon- 
sciously been  perceived  by  my  rods  and  cones, 
and  short-circuited  to  my  duller  brain.  Where  a 
moment  before  was  an  unbroken  translucent  sur- 
face, were  now  thirteen  strange  beings  who  had 
appeared  from  the  depths,  and  were  mumbling 
oxygen  with  trembling  lips. 

In  days  to  come,  through  all  the  months,  I 
should  again  and  again  be  surprised  and  cheated 
and  puzzled — all  phases  of  delight  in  the  beings 
who  share  the  earth's  life  with  me.  This  was  one 
of  the  first  of  the  year,  and  I  stiffened  into  one 
large  eye. 

I  did  not  know  whether  they  were  fish,  fairy 
shrimps,  or  frogs;  I  had  never  seen  anything  like 
them,  and  they  were  wholly  unexpected.  I  so 
much  desired  to  know  what  they  were,  that  I  sat 
quietly — as  I  enjoy  keeping  a  treasured  letter 


128  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  the  last,  or  reserving  the  frosting  until  the  cake 
is  eaten.  It  occurred  to  me  that,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  Kaiser,  I  might  have  been  forbidden  this 
mystery;  a  chain  of  occurrences:  Kaiser — war — 
submarines — glass-shortage  for  dreadnoughts — 
mica  port-holes  needed — Guiana  prospector — 
abandoned  pits — rainy  season — mysterious  ten- 
ants— me ! 

When  I  squatted  by  the  side  of  the  pool,  no 
sign  of  life  was  visible.  Far  up  through  the 
green  foliage  of  the  jungle  I  could  see  a  solid 
ceiling  of  cloud,  while  beneath  me  the  liquid  clay 
of  the  pool  was  equally  opaque  and  lifeless.  As 
a  seer  watches  the  surface  of  his  crystal  ball,  so 
I  gazed  at  my  six-foot  circle  of  milky  water. 
My  shift  forward  was  like  the  fall  of  a  tree:  it 
brought  into  existence  about  it  a  temporary  cir- 
cle of  silence  and  fear — a  circle  whose  periphery 
began  at  once  to  contract;  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes the  gorge  again  accepted  me  as  a  part  of  its 
harmless  self.  A  huge  bee  zoomed  past,  and 
just  behind  my  head  a  hummingbird  beat  the  air 
into  a  froth  of  sound,  as  vibrant  as  the  richest 
tones  of  a  cello.  My  concentrated  interest 
seemed  to  become  known  to  the  life  of  the  sur- 
rounding glade,  and  I  was  bombarded  with  sight. 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         129 

sound,  and  odor,  as  if  on  purpose  to  distract  my 
attention.  But  I  remained  unmoved,  and  indica- 
tions of  rare  and  desirable  beings  passed  un- 
heeded. 

A  flotilla  of  little  water-striders  came  rowing 
themselves  along,  racing  for  a  struggling  ant 
which  had  fallen  into  the  milky  quicksand. 
These  were  in  my  line  of  vision,  so  I  watched 
them  for  a  while,  letting  the  corner  of  my  eye 
keep  guard  for  the  real  aristocrats  of  the  milky 
sea — whoever  they  were.  My  eye  was  close 
enough,  my  elevation  sufficiently  low  to  become 
one  with  the  water-striders,  and  to  become  ex- 
cited over  the  adventures  of  these  little  petrels; 
and  in  my  absorption  I  almost  forgot  my  chief 
quest.  As  soaring  birds  seem  at  times  to  rest 
against  the  very  substance  of  cloud,  as  if  upheld 
by  some  thin  lift  of  air,  so  these  insects  glided  as 
easily  and  skimmed  as  swiftty  upon  the  surface 
film  of  water.  I  did  not  know  even  the  genus 
of  this  tropical  form;  but  insect  taxonomists 
have  been  particularly  happy  in  then*  given 
names — I  recalled  Ilydrohates,  Aquarius,  and 
reviigis. 

The  spur-winged  jacanas  are  very  skilful  in 
their  dainty  treading  of  water-lily  leaves;  but 


130  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

here  were  good-sized  insects  rowing  about  on  the 
water  itself.     They  supported  themselves  on  the 
four  hinder  legs,  rowing  with  the  middle  pair, 
and  steering  with  the  hinder  ones,  while  the  front 
limbs  were  held  aloft  ready  for  the  seizing  of 
prey.     I  watched  three  of  them  approach  the 
ant,  which  was  struggling  to  reach  the  shore,  and 
the  first  to  reach  it  hesitated  not  a  moment,  but 
leaped  into  the  air  from  a  take-off  of  mere  aque- 
ous surface  film,  landed  full  upon  the  drowning 
unfortunate,  grasped  it,  and  at  the  same  instant 
gave  a  mighty  sweep  with  its  oars,  to  escape  from 
its  pursuing,  envious  companions.    Off  went  the 
twelve  dimples,  marking  the  aquatic  footprints 
of  the  trio  of  striders;  and  as  the  bearer  of  the 
ant  dodged  one  of  its  own  kind,  it  w^as  suddenly 
threatened  by  a  small,  jet  submarine  of  a  diving 
beetle.    At  the  very  moment  when  the  pursuit 
was  hottest,   and   it   seemed   anybody's   ant,   I 
looked  aside,  and  the  little  water-bugs  passed 
from  my  sight  forever — for  scattered  over  the 
surface  were  seven  strange,  mumbling  mouths. 
Close  as  I  was,  their  nature  still  eluded  me.    At 
my  slightest  movement  all  vanished,  not  with  the 
virile  splash  of  a  fish  or  the  healthy  roll  and  dip 
of  a  porpoise,  but  with  a  weird,  vertical  with- 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS        131 

drawing — the  seven  dissolving  into  the  milk  to 
join  their  six  fellows. 

This  was  sufficient  to  banish  further  medita- 
tive surmising,  and  I  crept  swiftly  to  a  point  of 
vantage,  and  with  sweep-net  awaited  their  reap- 
pearance. It  was  five  minutes  before  faint,  dis- 
colored spots  indicated  their  rising,  and  at  least 
two  minutes  more  before  they  actually  disturbed 
the  surface.  With  eight  or  nine  in  view,  I  dipped 
quickly  and  got  nothing.  Then  I  sank  my  net 
deeply  and  waited  again.  This  time  ten  minutes 
passed,  and  then  I  swept  deep  and  swiftly,  and 
drew  up  the  net  with  four  flopping,  struggling 
super-tadpoles.  They  struggled  for  only  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  lay  quietly  waiting  for  what 
might  be  sent  by  the  guardian  of  the  fate  of  tad- 
poles— surely  some  quaint  little  god-relation  of 
Neptune,  Pan,  and  St.  Vitus.  Gently  shunted 
into  a  glass  jar,  these  surprising  tads  accepted 
the  new  environment  with  quiet  philosophy;  and 
when  I  reached  the  laboratory  and  transferred 
them  again,  they  dignifiedly  righted  themselves 
in  the  swirling  current,  and  hung  in  mid-aqua- 
rium, waiting — forever  waiting. 

It  was  difficult  to  think  of  them  as  tadpoles, 
when  the  word  brought  to  mind  hosts  of  little 


132  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

black  wrigglers  filling  puddles  and  swamps  of 
our  northern  country.  These  were  slow-moving, 
graceful  creatures,  partly  transparent,  partly  re- 
flecting every  hue  of  the  spectrum,  with  broad, 
waving  scarlet  and  hyaline  fins,  and  strange, 
fish-like  mouths  and  eyes.  Their  habits  were  as 
unpollywoglike  as  their  appearance.  I  visited 
their  micaceous  pool  again  and  again;  and  if  I 
could  have  spent  days  instead  of  hours  with  them> 
no  moment  of  ennui  would  have  intervened. 

My  acquaintanceship  with  tadpoles  in  the  past 
had  not  aroused  me  to  enthusiasm  in  the  matter 
of  their  mental  ability;  as,  for  example,  the  in- 
mates of  the  next  aquarium  to  that  of  the  Ked- 
fins,  where  1  kept  a  herd  or  brood  or  school  of 
Short-tailed  Blacks — pollywogs  of  the  Giant 
Toad  {Bufo  marinus) ,  At  earliest  dawn  they 
swam  aimlessly  about  and  mumbled ;  at  high  noon 
they  mumbled  and  still  swam;  at  midnight  they 
refused  to  be  otherwise  occupied.  It  was  possible 
to  alarm  them;  but  even  while  they  fled  they 
mumbled. 

In  bodily  form  my  Kedfins  were  fish,  but  men- 
tally they  had  advanced  a  little  beyond  the  usual 
tadpole  train  of  reactions,  reaching  forward  to- 
ward the  varied  activities  of  the  future  amphi- 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         133 

bian.  One  noticeable  thing  was  their  segregation, 
whether  in  the  mica  pools,  or  in  two  other  smaller 
ones  near  by,  in  which  I  found  them.  Each  held 
a  pure  culture  of  Redfins,  and  I  found  that  this 
was  no  accident,  but  aided  and  enforced  bv  the 
tads  themselves.  Twice,  while  I  w^atched  them, 
I  saw  definite  pursuit  of  an  alien  pollywog, — the 
larva  of  the  Scarlet-thighed  Leaf -walker  {Fhyl- 
lohates  inguinalis), — which  fled  headlong.  The 
second  time  the  attack  was  so  persistent  that  the 
lesser  tadpole  leaped  from  the  water,  wriggled 
its  way  to  a  damp  heap  of  leaves,  and  slipped 
down  between  them.  For  tadpoles  to  take  such 
action  as  this  was  as  reasonable  as  for  an  orchid 
to  push  a  fellow  blossom  aside  on  the  approach 
of  a  fertilizing  hawk-moth.  This  momentary  co- 
operation, and  the  concerted  elimination  of  the 
undesired  tadpole,  affected  me  as  the  thought  of 
the  first  consciousness  of  power  of  synchronous 
rhythm  coming  to  ape  men :  it  seemed  a  spark  of 
tadpole  genius — an  adumbration  of  possibilities 
which  now  would  end  in  the  dull  consciousness 
of  the  future  frog,  but  which  might,  in  past  ages, 
have  been  a  vital  link  in  tlie  development  of  an 
ancestral  Ereops. 

My  Redfins  were  assuredly  no  common  tad- 


134  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

poles,  and  an  intolerant  pollywog  offers  worthy 
research  for  the  naturalist.  Straining  their  me- 
dium of  its  opacity,  I  drew  off  the  clayey  liquid 
and  replaced  it  with  the  clearer  brown,  wallaba- 
stained  water  of  the  Mazaruni ;  and  thereafter  all 
their  doings,  all  their  intimacies,  were  at  my 
mercy.  I  felt  as  must  have  felt  the  first  aviator 
who  flew  unheralded  over  an  oriental  city,  with 
its  patios  and  house-roofs  spread  naked  beneath 
him. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  early  days  of  observation 
that  an  astounding  thought  came  to  me — before 
I  had  lost  perspective  in  intensive  watching,  be- 
fore familiarity  had  assuaged  some  of  the  mar- 
vel of  these  super-tadpoles.  Most  of  those  in  my 
jar  were  of  a  like  size,  just  short  of  an  inch;  but 
one  was  much  larger,  and  correspondingly  gor- 
geous in  color  and  graceful  in  movement.  As 
she  swept  slowly  past  my  line  of  vision,  she  turned 
and  looked,  first  at  me,  then  up  at  the  limits  of 
her  world,  with  a  slow  deliberateness  and  a  hint 
of  expression  which  struck  deep  into  my  memory. 
Green  came  to  mind, — something  clad  in  a  smock 
of  emerald,  with  a  waistcoat  of  mother-of-pearl, 
and  great  sprawling  arms, — and  I  found  myself 
thinking  of  Gawain,  our  mystery  frog  of  a  year 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         135 

ago,  who  came  without  warning,  and  withheld 
all  the  secrets  of  his  life.  And  I  glanced  again 
at  this  super-tad, — as  unlike  her  ultimate  devel- 
opment as  the  grub  is  unlike  the  beetle, — and  one 
of  us  exclaimed,  "It  is  the  same,  or  nearly,  but 
more  delicate,  more  beautiful ;  it  must  be  Guine- 
vere." And  so,  probably  for  the  first  time  in  the 
world,  there  came  to  be  a  pet  tadpole,  one  with 
an  absurd  name  which  will  forever  be  more  sig- 
nificant to  us  than  the  term  applied  by  a  forgot- 
ten herpetologist  many  years  ago. 

And  Guinevere  became  known  to  all  who  had 
to  do  with  the  laboratory.  Her  health  and  daily 
development  and  color-change  were  things  to  be 
inquired  after  and  discussed;  one  of  us  watched 
her  closely  and  made  notes  of  her  life,  one  painted 
every  radical  development  of  color  and  pattern, 
another  photographed  her,  and  another  brought 
her  delectable  scum.  She  was  waited  upon  as 
sedulously  as  a  termite  queen.  And  she  re- 
warded us  by  living,  which  was  all  we  asked. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  diver  to  express  his  emo- 
tions on  paper,  and  verbal  arguments  with  a  den- 
tist are  usually  one-sided.  So  must  the  spirit 
of  a  tadpole  suffer  greatly  from  handicaps  of  the 
flesh.    A  mumbling  mouth  and  an  uncontrollable. 


136  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

flagellating  tail,  connected  by  a  pinwheel  of  in- 
testine, are  scant  material  wherewith  to  attempt 
new  experiments,  whereon  to  nourish  aspirations. 
Yet  the  Redfins,  as  typified  by  Guinevere,  have 
done  both,  and  given  time  enough,  they  may  emu- 
late or  surpass  the  achievements  of  larval  axo- 
lotls,  or  the  astounding  egg-producing  maggots 
of  certain  gnats,  thus  realizing  all  the  possibil- 
ities of  froghood  while  yet  cribbed  within  the 
lowly  casing  of  a  pollywog. 

In  the  first  place  Guinevere  had  ceased  being 
positively  thigmotactic,  and,  writing  as  a  tech- 
nical herpetologist,  I  need  add  no  more.  In 
fact,  all  my  readers,  whether  Batrachologists  or 
Casuals,  will  agree  that  this  is  an  unheard-of 
achievement.  But  before  I  loosen  the  technical 
etymology  and  become  casually  more  explicit,  let 
me  hold  this  term  in  suspense  a  moment,  as  I 
once  did,  fascinated  by  the  sheer  sound  of  the  syl- 
lables, as  they  first  came  to  my  ears  years  ago  in 
a  university  lecture.  There  is  that  of  possibility 
in  being  positively  thigmotactic  which  makes  one 
dread  the  necessity  of  exposing  and  limiting  its 
meaning,  of  digging  down  to  its  mathematically 
accurate  roots.  It  could  never  be  called  a  flower 
of  speech:  it  is  an  over-ripe  fruit  rather:  heavy- 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         137 

stoned,  thin-ileshed — an  essentially  practical 
term.  It  is  eminently  suited  to  its  purpose,  and 
so  widely  used  that  my  friend  the  editor  must  ac- 
cept it ;  not  looking  askance  as  he  did  at  my  defi- 
nition of  a  vampire  as  a  vespertilial  anaesthetist, 
or  breaking  into  open  but  wholly  ineffectual  re- 
bellion, at  the  past  tense  of  the  verb  to  cande- 
labra.   I  admit  that  the  conjugation 

I  candelabra 
You  candelabra 
He  candelabras 

arouses  a  ripple  of  confusion  in  the  mind ;  but  it 
is  far  more  important  to  use  words  than  to  parse 
them,  anyway,  so  I  acclaim  perfect  clarity  for 
"The  fireflies  candelabraed  the  trees!" 

Not  to  know  the  precise  meaning  of  being 
positively  thigmotactic  is  a  stimulant  to  the  im- 
agination, which  opens  the  way  to  an  entire  es- 
say on  the  disadvantages  of  education — a  thought 
once  strongly  aroused  by  the  glorious  red-and- 
gold  hieroglyphic  signs  of  the  Peking  merchants 
• — signs  which  have  always  thrilled  me  more  than 
the  utmost  efforts  of  our  modern  psychological 
advertisers. 

Having  crossed  unconsciously  b}^  such  a  slen- 


138  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

der  etymological  bridge  from  my  jungle  tadpole 
to  China,  it  occurs  to  me  that  the  Chinese  are  the 
most  positively  thigmotactic  people  in  the  world. 
I  have  walked  through  block  after  block  of  sub- 
terranean catacombs,  beneath  city  streets  which 
were  literally  packed  full  of  humanity,  and  I 
have  seen  hot  mud  pondlets  along  the  Min  River 
wholly  eclipsed  by  shivering  Chinamen  packed 
sardinewise,  twenty  or  thirty  in  layers,  or  radiat- 
ing like  the  spokes  of  a  great  wheel  which  has 
fallen  into  the  mud. 

From  my  brood  of  Short-tailed  Blacks,  a  half- 
dozen  tadpoles  wandered  off  now  and  then,  each 
scum-mumbling  by  himself.  Shortly  his  positiv- 
ism asserted  itself  and  back  he  wriggled,  twisting 
in  and  out  of  the  mass  of  his  fellows,  or  at  the 
approach  of  danger  nuzzling  into  the  dead  leaves 
at  the  bottom,  content  only  with  the  feeling  of 
something  pressing  against  his  sides  and  tail. 
His  physical  make-up,  simple  as  it  is,  has  proved 
perfectly  adapted  to  this  touch  system  of  life: 
flat-bottomed,  with  rather  narrow,  paddle-shaped 
tail-fins  which,  beginning  well  back  of  the  body, 
interfere  in  no  way  with  the  pcllywog's  instincts, 
he  can  thigmotact  to  his  heart's  content.  His 
eyes  are  also  adapted  to  looking  upward,  dis- 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         139 

cerning  dimly  dangers  from  above,  and  whatever 
else  catches  the  attention  of  a  bottom-loving  pol- 
lywog.  His  mouth  is  well  below,  as  best  suits 
bottom  mumbling. 

Compared  with  these  polloi  pollywogs,  Red- 
fins  were  as  hummingbirds  to  quail.  Their  very 
origin  was  unique;  for  while  the  toad  tadpoles 
wriggled  their  way  free  from  egg  gelatine  de- 
posited in  the  water  itself,  the  Redfins  were  lit- 
erally rained  down.  Within  a  folded  leaf  the 
parents  left  the  eggs — a  leaf  carefully  chosen  as 
overhanging  a  suitable  ditch,  or  pit,  or  puddle. 
If  all  signs  of  weather  and  season  failed  and  a 
sudden  drought  set  in,  sap  would  dry,  leaf  would 
shrivel,  and  the  pitiful  gamble  for  life  of  the  little 
jungle  frogs  would  be  lost;  the  spoonful  of  froth 
would  collapse  bubble  by  bubble,  and,  finallj^  a 
thin  dry  film  on  the  brown  leaf  would  in  turn 
vanish,  and  Guinevere  and  her  companions  would 
never  have  been. 

But  untold  centuries  of  unconscious  necessity 
have  made  these  tree-frogs  infallible  weather 
prophets,  and  the  liberating  rain  soon  sifted 
through  the  jungle  foliage.  In  the  streaming 
drops  which  funneled  from  the  curled  leaf,  tad- 
pole    after    tadpole    hurtled     downward    and 


140  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

splashed  headlong  into  the  water;  their  parents 
and  the  rain  and  gravitation  had  performed  their 
part,  and  from  now  on  fate  lay  with  the  super- 
tads  themselves — except  when  a  passing  natural- 
ist brought  new  complications,  new  demands  of 
Karma,  as  strange  and  unpredictable  as  if  from 
another  planet  or  universe. 

Only  close  examination  showed  that  these  were 
tadpoles,  not  fish,  judged  by  the  staring  eyes, 
and  broad  fins  stained  above  and  below  with 
orange-scarlet — colors  doomed  to  oblivion  in  the 
native,  milky  waters,  but  glowing  brilliantly  in 
my  aquarium.  Although  they  were  provided 
with  such  an  expanse  of  fin,  the  only  part  used 
for  ordinary  progression  was  the  extreme  tip,  a 
mere  threadlike  streamer,  which  whipped  in 
never-ending  spirals,  lashing  forward,  backward, 
and  sideways.  So  rapid  was  this  motion,  and  so 
short  the  flagellum,  that  the  tadpole  did  not  even 
tremble  or  vibrate  as  it  moved,  but  forged  stead- 
ily onward,  without  a  tremor. 

The  head  was  huffy  yellow,  changing  to  bit- 
tersweet orange  back  of  the  eyes  and  on  the  gills. 
The  bodj^  was  dotted  with  a  host  of  minute  specks 
of  gold  and  silver.  On  the  sides  and  below,  this 
gave  place  to  a  rich  bronze,  and  then  to  a  clear. 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS        141 

iridescent  silvery  blue.  The  eye  proper  was  sil- 
very white,  but  the  upper  part  of  the  eyeball 
fairly  glowed  with  color.  In  front  it  was  jet 
black  flecked  with  gold,  merging  behind  into  a 
brilliant  blue.  Yet  this  patch  of  jeweled  tissue 
was  visible  only  rarely  as  the  tadpole  turned  for- 
ward, and  in  the  opaque  liquid  of  the  mica  pool 
must  have  ever  been  hidden.  And  even  if  plainly 
seen,  of  what  use  was  a  shred  of  rainbow  to  a 
sexless  tadpole  in  the  depths  of  a  shady  pool! 

With  high-arched  fins,  beginning  at  neck  and 
throat,  body  compressed  as  in  a  racing  yacht, 
there  could  be  no  bottom  life  for  Guinevere. 
Whenever  she  touched  a  horizontal  surface, — 
whether  leaf  or  twig, — she  careened;  when  she 
sculled  through  a  narrow  passage  in  the  floating 
alga},  her  fins  bent  and  rippled  as  they  were 
pressed  bodywards.  So  she  and  her  fellow  brood 
lived  in  mid-aquarium,  or  at  most  rested  lightly 
against  stem  or  glass,  suspended  by  gentle  suc- 
tion of  the  complex  mouth.  Once,  when  I  in- 
serted a  long  streamer  of  delicate  water-weed,  it 
remained  upright,  like  some  strange  tree  of  car- 
boniferous memory.  After  an  hour  I  found  this 
the  perching-place  of  fourteen  Redfin  tads,  and 
at  the  very  summit  was  Guinevere.     The  rest 


142  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

were  arranged  nearly  in  altitudinal  size — two 
large  tadpoles  being  close  below  Guinevere,  and 
a  bevy  of  six  tiny  chaps  lowest  down.  All  were 
lightly  poised,  swaying  in  mid-water,  at  a  gently 
sloping  angle,  like  some  unheard-of,  orange- 
stained,  aquatic  autumn  foliage. 

For  two  weeks  Guinevere  remained  almost  as 
I  have  described  her,  gaining  slightly  in  size,  but 
with  little  alteration  of  color  or  pattern.  Then 
came  the  time  of  the  great  change:  we  felt  it  to 
be  imminent  before  any  outward  signs  indicated 
its  approach.  And  for  four  more  days  there  was 
no  hint  except  the  sudden  growth  of  the  hind 
legs.  From  tiny  dangling  appendages  with  mi- 
nute toes  and  indefinite  knees,  they  enlarged  and 
bent,  and  became  miniature  but  perfect  frog's 
limbs. 

She  had  now  reached  a  length  of  two  inches, 
and  her  delicate  colors  and  waving  fins  made  her 
daily  more  marvelous.  The  strange  thing  about 
the  hind  limbs  was  that,  although  so  large  and 
perfect,  they  were  quite  useless.  They  could  not 
even  be  unflexed ;  and  other  mere  polly wogs  near 
by  were  wriggling  toes,  calves,  and  thighs  while 
yet  these  were  but  imperfect  buds.  When  she 
dived  suddenly,  the  toes  occasionally  moved  a 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         143 

little;  but  as  a  whole,  they  merely  sagged  and 
drifted  like  some  extraneous  things  entangled  in 
the  body. 

Smoothly  and  gracefully  Guinevere  moved 
about  the  aquarium.  Her  gills  lifted  and  closed 
rhythmically — twice  as  slowly  as  compared  with 
the  three  or  four  times  every  second  of  her 
breathless  young  tadpolehood.  Several  times  on 
the  fourteenth  day,  she  came  quietly  to  the  sur- 
face for  a  gulp  of  air. 

Looking  at  her  from  above,  two  little  bulges 
were  visible  on  either  side  of  the  body — the  en- 
sheathed  elbows  pressing  outward.  Twice,  when 
she  lurched  forward  in  alarm,  I  saw  these  front 
limbs  jerk  spasmodically;  and  when  she  was  rest- 
ing quietly,  they  rubbed  and  pushed  impatiently 
against  their  mittened  tissue. 

And  now  began  a  restless  shifting,  a  slow, 
strange  dance  in  mid-water,  wholly  unlike  any 
movement  of  her  smaller  companions;  up  and 
down,  slowly  revolving  on  oblique  planes,  with 
rhythmical  turns  and  sinkings — this  continued 
for  an  hour,  when  I  was  called  for  lunch.  And 
as  if  to  punish  me  for  this  material  digression 
and  desertion,  when  I  returned,  in  half  an  hour, 
the  miracle  had  happened. 


lU  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Guinevere  still  danced  in  stately  cadence,  with 
the  other  Redfins  at  a  distance  going  about  their 
several  businesses.  She  danced  alone — a  dance 
of  change,  of  happenings  of  tremendous  import, 
of  symbolism  as  majestic  as  it  was  age-old.  Here 
in  this  little  glass  aquarium  the  tadpole  Guine- 
vere had  just  freed  her  arms — she,  with  waving 
scarlet  fins,  w^atching  me  with  lidless  white  and 
staring  eyes,  still  with  fish-like,  fin-bound  body. 
She  danced  upright,  with  new-born  arms  folded 
across  her  breast,  tail-tip  flagellating  frenziedly, 
stretching  long  fingers  with  disks  like  cym- 
bals, reaching  out  for  the  land  she  had  never 
trod,  limbs  flexed  for  leaps  she  had  never 
made. 

A  few  days  before  and  Guinevere  had  been  a 
fish,  then  a  helpless  biped,  and  now  suddenly, 
somewhere  between  my  salad  and  coffee,  she  be- 
came an  aquatic  quadruped.  Strangest  of  all, 
her  hands  were  mobile,  her  feet  useless ;  and  when 
the  dance  was  at  an  end,  and  she  sank  slowly  to 
the  bottom,  she  came  to  rest  on  the  very  tips  of 
her  two  longest  fingers;  her  legs  and  toes  still 
drifting  high  and  useless.  Just  before  she 
ceased,  her  arms  stretched  out  right  froggily, 
her  weird  eyes  rolled  about,  and  she  gulped  a 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS        145 

mighty  gulp  of  the  strange  thin  mediLun  that  cov- 
ered the  surface  of  her  liquid  home. 

At  midnight  of  this  same  day  only  three  things 
existed  in  the  world — on  my  table  1  turned  from 
the  Bhagavad'Gita  to  Drinkwater's  Eeverie  and 
back  again;  then  I  looked  up  to  the  jar  of  clear 
water  and  watched  Guinevere  hovering  motion- 
less. At  six  the  next  morning  she  was  crouched 
safely  on  a  bit  of  paper  a  foot  from  the  aqua- 
rium. She  had  missed  the  open  window,  the 
four-foot  drop  to  the  floor,  and  a  neighboring 
aquarium  stocked  with  voracious  fish:  surely  the 
gods  of  pollywogs  were  kind  to  me.  The  great 
fins  were  gone — dissolved  into  blobs  of  dull  pink; 
the  tail  was  a  mere  stub,  the  feet  drawn  close, 
and  a  glance  at  her  head  showed  that  Guinevere 
had  become  a  frog  almost  within  an  hour.  Three 
things  I  hastened  to  observe;  the  pupils  of  her 
eyes  were  vertical,  revealing  her  genus  PhyllO' 
medusa  (making  apt  our  choice  of  the  feminine)  ; 
by  a  gentle  urging  I  saw  that  the  first  and  sec- 
ond toes  were  equal  in  length;  and  a  glance  at 
her  little  humped  back  showed  a  scattering  of 
white  calcareous  spots,  giving  the  clue  to  her 
specific  personality — bicolor:  thus  were  we  in- 
troduced to  Phi/llomedusa  bicolor,  alias  Guine- 


146  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

vere,  and  thus  was  established  beyond  doubt  her 
close  relationship  to  Gawain. 

During  that  first  day,  within  three  hours,  dur- 
ing most  of  which  I  watched  her  closely,  Guine- 
vere's change  in  color  was  beyond  belief.  For 
an  hour  she  leaped  from  time  to  time;  but  after 
that,  and  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  she  crept  in 
strange  unfroglike  fashion,  raised  high  on  all 
four  limbs,  with  her  stubby  tail  curled  upward, 
and  reaching  out  one  weird  limb  after  another. 
If  one's  hand  approached  within  a  foot,  she  saw 
it  and  stretched  forth  appealing,  skinny  fingers. 

At  two  o'clock  she  was  clad  in  a  general  cinna- 
mon buff;  then  a  shade  of  glaucous  green  began 
to  creep  over  head  and  upper  eyelids,  onward 
over  her  face,  finally  coloring  body  and  limbs. 
Beneath,  the  little  pollyfrog  fairly  glowed  with 
bright  apricot  orange,  throat  and  tail  amparo 
purple,  mouth  green,  and  sides  rich  pale  blue. 
To  this  maze  of  color  we  must  add  a  strange, 
new  expression,  born  of  the  prominent  eyes,  to- 
gether with  the  line  of  the  mouth  extending 
straight  back  with  a  final  jeering,  upward  lift; 
in  front,  the  lower  lip  thick  and  protruding, 
which,  with  the  slanting  eyes,  gave  a  leering, 
devilish  smirk,  while  her  set,  stiff,  exact  posture 


GUINEVERE  THE  MYSTERIOUS         147 

compelled  a  vivid  thought  of  the  sphinx.  Xever 
have  I  seen  such  a  remarkahle  combination.  It 
fascinated  us.  We  looked  at  Guinevere,  and 
then  at  the  tadpoles  swimming  quietly  in  their 
tank,  and  evolution  in  its  wildest  conceptions  ap- 
peared a  tame  truism. 

This  was  the  acme  of  Guinevere's  chano-e,  the 
pinnacle  of  her  development.  Thereafter  her 
transformations  were  rhythmical,  alternating 
with  the  day  and  night.  Through  the  nights  of 
activity  she  was  garbed  in  rich,  warm  brown. 
With  the  coming  of  dawn,  as  she  climbed  slowly 
upward,  her  color  shifted  through  chestnut  to 
maroon;  this  maroon  then  died  out  on  the  mid- 
back  to  a  delicate,  dull  violet-blue,  which  in  turn 
became  obscured  in  the  sunlight  by  turquoise, 
which  crept  slowly  along  the  sides.  Carefully 
and  laboriously  she  clambered  up,  up  to  the  top- 
most frond,  and  there  performed  her  little  toilet, 
scraping  head  and  face  with  her  hands,  passing 
the  hinder  limbs  over  her  back  to  brush  off  every 
grain  of  sand'  The  eyes  had  meanwhile  lost  their 
black-flecked,  golden,  nocturnal  iridescence,  and 
had  gradually  paled  to  a  clear  silvery  blue,  while 
the  great  pupil  of  darkness  narrow^ed  to  a  slit. 

Little  by  little  her  limbs  and  digits  were  drawn 


148  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

in  out  of  sight,  and  the  tiny  jeweled  being 
crouched  low,  hoping  for  a  day  of  comfortable 
clouds,  a  little  moisture,  and  a  swift  passage  of 
time  to  the  next  period  of  darkness,  when  it  was 
fitting  and  right  for  Guineveres  to  seek  their 
small  meed  of  sustenance,  to  grow  to  frog's 
full  estate,  and  to  fulfil  as  well  as  might  be  what 
destiny  the  jungle  offered.  To  unravel  the 
meaning  of  it  all  is  beyond  even  attempting.  The 
breath  of  mist  ever  clouds  the  mirror,  and  only 
as  regards  a  tiny  segment  of  the  life-history  of 
Guinevere  can  I  say,  "There  is  no  need  to  wipe 
the  mirror." 


VII 

A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 

Pterodactyl  Pups  led  me  to  the  wonderful 
Attas — the  most  astounding  of  the  jungle  labor- 
unions.  We  were  all  sitting  on  the  IMazaruni 
bank,  the  night  before  the  full  moon,  immediately 
in  front  of  my  British  Guiana  laboratory.  All 
the  jungle  was  silent  in  the  white  light,  with  now 
and  then  the  splash  of  a  big  river  fish.  On  the 
end  of  the  bench  was  the  monosyllabic  Scot,  who 
ceased  the  exquisite  painting  of  mora  buttresses 
and  jungle  shadows  only  for  the  equal  fascina- 
tion of  searching  bats  for  parasites.  Then  the 
great  physician,  who  had  come  six  thousand 
miles  to  peer  into  the  eyes  of  birds  and  lizards  in 
iny  dark-room,  working  with  a  gentle  hypnotic 
manner  that  made  the  little  beings  seem  to  enjoy 
the  experience.  On  my  right  sat  an  army  cap- 
tain, who  had  given  more  thought  to  the  possible 
secrets  of  French  chafnnches  than  to  the  ap- 
proaching barrage.  There  was  also  the  artist, 
who  could  draw  a  lizard's  head  like  a  Japanese 

149 


150  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

print,   but   preferred   to   depict   impressionistic 
Laocoon  roots. 

These  and  others  sat  with  me  on  the  long  bench 
and  watched  the  moonpath.  The  conversation 
had  begun  with  possible  former  life  on  the  moon, 
then  shifted  to  Conan  Doyle's  The  Lost  World, 
based  on  the  great  Roraima  plateau,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  west  of  where  we  were  sitting. 
Then  we  spoke  of  the  amusing  world-wide  ru- 
mor, which  had  started  no  one  knows  how,  that 
I  had  recently  discovered  a  pterodactyl.  One 
delightful  result  of  this  had  been  a  letter  from 
a  little  English  girl,  which  would  have  made  a 
worthy  chapter-subject  for  Dream  Days,  For 
years  she  and  her  little  sister  had  peopled  a  wood 
near  her  home  with  pterodactyls,  but  had  some- 
how never  quite  seen  one ;  and  would  I  tell  her  a 
little  about  them — whether  thev  had  scales,  or 

ft  ' 

made  nests ;  so  that  those  in  the  wood  might  be  a 
little  easier  to  recognize. 

When  strange  things  are  discussed  for  a  long 
time,  in  the  light  of  a  tropical  moon,  at  the  edge 
of  a  dark,  whispering  jungle,  the  mind  becomes 
singularly  imaginative  and  receptive;  and,  as  I 
looked  through  powerful  binoculars  at  the  great 
suspended  globe,  the  dead  craters  and  precipices 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  151 

became  very  vivid  and  near.  Suddenly,  without 
warning,  there  flapped  into  my  field,  a  huge 
shapeless  creature.  It  was  no  bird,  and  there 
was  nothing  of  the  bat  in  its  flight — the  wings 
moved  with  steady  rhythmical  beats,  and  drove 
it  straight  onward.  The  wings  were  skinny,  the 
body  large  and  of  a  pale  ashy  hue.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  was  shaken.  One  of  the  others  had  seen 
it,  and  he,  too,  did  not  speak,  but  concentrated 
every  sense  into  the  end  of  the  little  tubes.  By 
the  time  I  had  begun  to  find  words,  I  realized 
that  a  giant  fruit  bat  had  flown  from  utter  dark- 
ness across  my  line  of  sight;  and  by  close  watch- 
ing we  soon  saw  others.  But  for  a  very  few  sec- 
onds these  Pterodactyl  Pups,  as  I  nicknamed 
them,  gave  me  all  the  thrill  of  a  sudden  glimpse 
into  the  life  of  past  ages.  The  last  time  I  had 
seen  fruit  bats  was  in  the  gardens  of  Perideniya, 
Ceylon.  I  had  forgotten  that  they  occurred  in 
Guiana,  and  was  wholly  unprepared  for  the  sight 
of  bats  a  yard  across,  with  a  heron's  flight,  pass- 
ing high  over  the  Mazaruni  in  the  moonlight. 

The  talk  ended  on  the  misfortune  of  the  con- 
figuration of  human  anatomy,  which  makes  sky- 
searching  so  uncomfortable  a  habit.  This  out- 
look was  probably  developed  to  a  greater  extent 


152  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

during  the  war  than  ever  before;  and  I  can  re- 
member many  evenings  in  Paris  and  London 
when  a  sinister  half-moon  kept  the  faces  of  mil- 
hons  turned  searchingiy  upward.  But  whether 
in  city  or  jungle,  sky-scanning  is  a  neck-aching 
affair. 

The  following  day  ivxy  experience  with  the 
Pterodactyl  Pups  was  not  forgotten,  and  as  a 
direct  result  of  looking  out  for  soaring  vultures 
and  eagles,  with  hopes  of  again  seeing  a  white- 
plumaged  King  and  the  regal  Harpy,  I  caught 
sight  of  a  tiny  mote  high  up  in  mid-sky.  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  a  martin  or  swift;  but  it 
descended,  slowly  spiraling,  and  became  too 
small  for  any  bird.  With  a  final,  long,  descend- 
ing curve,  it  alighted  in  the  compound  of  our 
bungalow  laboratory  and  rested  quietly — a  great 
queen  of  the  leaf-cutting  Attas  returning  from 
her  marriage  flight.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
stirred,  w^alked  a  few  steps,  cleaned  her  antennae, 
and  searched  nervouslv  about  on  the  sand.  A 
foot  avvay  was  a  tiny  sprig  of  indigo,  the  off- 
spring of  some  seed  planted  two  or  three  cen- 
turies ago  by  a  thrifty  Dutchman.  In  the  shade 
of  its  three  leaves  the  insect  paused,  and  at  once 
began  scraping  at  the  sand  with  her  jaws.    She 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  153 

loosened  grain  after  grain,  and  as  they  came 
free  they  were  moistened,  agglutinated,  and 
pressed  back  against  her  fore-legs.  When  at 
last  a  good-sized  ball  was  formed,  she  picked  it 
up,  turned  around  and,  after  some  fussy  indeci- 
sion, deposited  it  on  the  sand  behind  her.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  very  shallow,  round  depres- 
sion, and  began  to  gather  a  second  ball. 

I  thought  of  the  first  handful  of  sand  thrown 
out  for  the  base  of  Cheops,  of  the  first  brick 
placed  in  position  for  the  Great  Wall,  of  a  fresh- 
cut  trunk,  rough-hewn  and  squared  for  a  log- 
cabin  on  Manhattan;  of  the  first  shovelful  of 
earth  flung  out  of  the  line  of  the  Panama  Canal. 
Yet  none  seemed  worthy  of  comparison  with  even 
what  little  I  knew  of  the  significance  of  this  ant's 
labor,  for  this  was  earnest  of  what  would  make 
trivial  the  engineering  skill  of  Egyptians,  of 
Chinese  patience,  of  municipal  pride  and  conti- 
nental schism. 

Imagine  sawing  off  a  barn-door  at  the  top  of 
a  giant  sequoia,  growing  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Grand  Canon,  and  then,  with  five  or  six  children 
clinging  to  it,  descending  the  tree,  and  carrying 
it  up  the  canon  walls  against  a  subway  rush  of 
rude  people,  who  elbowed  and  pushed  blindly 


154i  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

against  you.  This  is  what  hundreds  of  leaf -cut- 
ting ants  accompHsh  daily,  when  cutting  leavesi 
from  a  tall  bush,  at  the  foot  of  the  bank  near  the 
laboratory. 

There  are  three  dominant  labor-unions  in  the 
jungle,  all  social  insects,  two  of  them  ants,  never 
interfering  with  each  other's  field  of  action,  and 
all  supremely  illustrative  of  conditions  resulting 
from  absolute  equality,  free-and-equalness,  com- 
munalism,  socialism  carried  to  the  (forgive  me!) 
anth  power.  The  Army  Ants  are  carnivorous, 
predatory,  militant  nomads;  the  Termites  are 
vegetarian  scavengers,  sedentary,  negative  and 
provincial;  the  Attas,  or  leaf -cutting  ants,  are 
vegetarians,  active  and  dominant,  and  in  many; 
ways  the  most  interesting  of  all. 

The  casual  observer  becomes  aware  of  theni 
through  their  raids  upon  gardens ;  and  indeed  the 
Attas  are  a  very  serious  menace  to  agriculture 
in  many  parts  of  the  tropics,  where  their  nests, 
although  underground,  may  be  as  large  as  a 
house  and  contain  millions  of  individuals.  Wliile 
their  choice  among  wild  plants  is  exceedingly 
varied,  it  seems  that  there  are  certain  things  they 
will  not  touch;  but  when  any  human-reared 
flower,  vegetable,  shrub,  vine,  or  tree  is  planted^ 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  155 

the  Attas  rejoice,  and  straightway  desert  the  na- 
tive vegetation  to  fall  upon  the  newcomers. 
Their  whims  and  irregular  feeding  hahits  make 
it  difficult  to  guard  against  them.  They  will 
work  all  round  a  garden  for  weeks,  perhaps  pass 
through  it  en  route  to  some  tree  that  they  are  de- 
foliating, and  then  suddenly,  one  night,  every 
Atta  in  the  world  seems  possessed  with  a  desire 
to  work  havoc,  and  at  daylight  the  next  morning, 
the  garden  looks  like  winter  stuhble — a  vast  ex- 
panse of  stems  and  twigs,  without  a  single  re- 
maining leaf.  Volumes  have  been  written,  and 
a  whole  chemist's  shop  of  deadly  concoctions  de- 
vised, for  combating  these  ants,  and  still  they  go 
steadily  on,  gathering  leaves  which,  as  we  shall 
jsee,  they  do  not  even  use  for  food. 

Although  essentially  a  tropical  family,  Attas 
have  pushed  as  far  north  as  New  Jersey,  where 
they  make  a  tiny  nest,  a  few  inches  across,  and 
bring  to  it  bits  of  pine  needles. 

In  a  jungle  Baedeker,  we  should  double-star 
these  insects,  and  paragraph  them  as  '''Atta, 
named  by  Fabricius  in  1804 ;  the  Kartabo  species, 
cephalotes;  Leaf-cutting  or  Cushie  or  Parasol 
Ants;  very  abundant.  Atta,  a  subgenus  of  Atta, 
which  is  a  genus  of  Attii^  which  is  a  tribe  of  xlf 7/r- 


156  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

micincB,  which  is  a  subfamily  of  Formicidoe,^^ 
etc. 

With  a  feeling  of  slightly  greater  intimacy,  of 
mental  possession,  we  set  out,  armed  with  a  name 
of  one  hundred  and  seventeen  years'  standing, 
and  find  a  big  Atta  worker  carving  away  at  a 
bit  of  leaf,  exactly  as  his  ancestors  had  done  for 
probably  one  hundred  and  seventeen  thousand 
vears. 

We  gently  lift  him  from  his  labor,  and  a  drop 
of  chloroform  banishes  from  his  ganglia  all  mem- 
ory of  the  hundred  thousand  years  of  pruning. 
Under  the  lens  his  strange  personality  becomes 
manifest,  and  we  wonder  whether  the  old  Danish 
zoologist  had  in  mind  the  slender  toe-tips  which 
support  him,  or  in  a  chuckling  mood  made  him 
a  namesake  of  C.  Quintius  Atta.  A  close-up 
shows  a  very  comic  little  being,  encased  in  a 
prickly,  chestnut-colored  armor,  v/hich  should 
make  him  fearless  in  a  den  of  a  hundred  anteat- 
ers.  The  front  view  of  his  head  is  a  bit  mephis- 
tophelian,  for  it  is  drawn  upward  into  two  horny 
spines;  but  the  s'de  view  recalls  a  little  girl  with 
her  hair  brushed  very  tightly  up  and  back  from 
her  face. 

The  connection  between  Atta  and  the  world 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  157 

about  him  is  furnished  by  this  same  head:  two 
huge,  fiail-shaped  attenna^  arching  up  hke  aerial, 
detached      eyebrows — vehicles,     through     their 
golden  pile,  of  senses  which  foil  our  most  delicate 
tests.    Outside  of  these  are  two  little  shoe-button 
eyes ;  and  we  are  not  certain  whether  they  reflect 
to  the  head  ganglion  two  or  three  hundred  bits 
of  leaf,  or  one  large  mosaic  leaf.     Below  all  is 
sw^ung  the  pair  of  great  scythes,  so  edged  and 
hung  that  they  can  function  as  jaws,  rij^-saws, 
scissors,  forceps,  and  clamps.     The  thorax,  like 
the  head  of  a  titanothere,  bears  three  pairs  of 
horns — a  great  irregular  expanse  of  tumbled, 
rock-like  skin  and  thorn,  a  foundation  for  three 
pairs  of  long  legs,  and  sheltering  somewhere  in 
its  heart  a  thread  of  ant-life;  finally,  two  little 
pedicels  lead  to  a  rounded  abdomen,  smaller  than 
the  head.     This   Third-of-an-inch  is   a  worker 
Atta  to  the  physical  eye ;  and  if  we  catch  another, 
or  ten,  or  ten  million,  we  find  that  some  are  small, 
others  much  larger,  but  that  all  are  cast  in  the 
same  mold,  all  indistinguishable  except,  perhaps, 
to  the  shoe-button  eyes. 

When  a  worker  has  traveled  along  the  Atta 
trails,  and  has  followed  the  temporary  mob-in- 
stinct and  climbed  bush  or  tree,  the  same  irresist- 


158  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

ible  force  drives  him  out  upon  a  leaf.    Plere,  ap- 
parently, instinct  slightly  loosens  its  hold,  and  he 
seems  to  become  individual  for  a  moment,  to  look 
about,  and  to  decide  upon  a  suitable  edge  or  cor- 
ner of  green  leaf.    But  even  in  this  he  probably 
has  no  choice.     At  any  rate,  he  secures  a  good 
hold  and  sinks  his  jaws  into  the  tissue.     Stand- 
ing firmly  on  the  leaf,  he  measures  his  distance 
by  cutting  across  a  segment  of  a  circle,  with  one 
of  his  hind  feet  as  a  center.     This  gives  a  very 
true  curve,  and  provides  a  leaf-load  of  suitable 
size.    He  does  not  scissor  his  way  across,  but  bit 
by  bit  sinks  the  tip  of  one  jaw,  hook-like,  into  the 
surface,  and  brings  the  other  up  to  it,  slicing 
through  the  tissue  with  surprising  ease.      He 
stands  upon  the  leaf,  and  I  always  expect  to  see 
him  cut  himself  and  his  load  free.  Irishman-wise. 
But  one  or  two  of  his  feet  have  invariably  secured 
a  grip  on  the  plant,  sufficient  to  hold  him  safely. 
Even  if  one  or  two  of  his  fellows  are  at  work 
farther  down  the  leaf,  he  has  power  enough  in 
his  slight  grip  to  suspend  all  until  they  have  fin- 
ished and  clambered  up  over  him  with  their  loads. 
Holding  his  bit  of  leaf  edge-wise,  he  bends  his 
head  down  as  far  as  possible,  and  secures  a  strong 
purchase  along  the  very  rim.    Then,  as  he  raises 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  159 

his  head,  the  leaf  rises  with  it,  suspended  high 
over  his  back,  out  of  the  way.  Down  the  stem 
or  tree-trunk  he  trudges,  head  fb'st,  fighting 
with  gravitation,  until  he  reaches  the  ground. 
After  a  few  feet,  or,  measured  by  his  stature, 
several  hundred  yards,  his  infallible  instinct 
guides  him  around  pebble  boulders,  mossy  or- 
chards, and  grass  jungles  to  a  specially  prepared 
path. 

Thus  in  words,  in  sentences,  we  may  describe 
the  cutting  of  a  single  leaf;  but  only  in  the  im- 
agination can  we  visualize  the  cell-like  or  crys- 
tal-like duplication  of  this  throughout  all  the 
great  forests  of  Guiana  and  of  South  America. 
As  I  write,  a  million  jaws  snip  through  their 
stint;  as  you  read,  ten  million  Attas  begin  on 
new  bits  of  leaf.  And  all  in  silence  and  in  dim 
light,  legions  passing  along  the  little  jungle 
roads,  unending  lines  of  trembling  banners,  a 
political  parade  of  ultra  socialism,  a  procession 
of  chlorophyll  floats  illustrating  unreasoning  un- 
morality,  a  fairy  replica  of  "Birnam  Forest  come 
to  Dunsinane." 

In  their  leaf-cutting,  Attas  have  mastered 
mass,  but  not  form.  I  have  never  seen  one  cut 
off  a  piece  too  heavy  to  carry,  but  many  a  hard- 


160  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

sliced  bit  has  had  to  be  deserted  because  of  the 
configuration  of  the  upper  edge.  On  almost  any 
trail,  an  ant  can  be  found  with  a  two  -inch  stem 
of  grass,  attempting  to  pass  under  a  twig  an  inch 
overhead.  After  five  or  ten  minutes  of  pushing, 
backing,  and  pulling,  he  may  accidentally  march 
off  to  one  side,  or  reach  up  and  climb  over;  but 
usually  he  drops  his  burden.  His  little  works 
have  been  wound  up,  and  set  at  the  mark 
"home";  and  though  he  has  now  dropped  the 
prize  for  which  he  walked  a  dozen  ant-miles,  j^et 
any  idea  of  cutting  another  stem,  or  of  picking 
up  a  slice  of  leaf  from  those  lying  along  the  trail, 
never  occurs  to  him.  He  sets  off  homeward,  and 
if  any  emotion  of  sorrow,  regret,  disappointment, 
or  secret  relief  troubles  his  ganglia,  no  trace  of 
it  appears  in  antennae,  carriage,  or  speed.  I  can 
very  readity  conceive  of  his  trudging  sturdily  all 
the  way  back  to  the  nest,  entering  it,  and  going 
to  the  place  where  he  would  have  dumped  his 
load,  having  fulfilled  his  duty  in  the  spirit  at 
least.  Then,  if  there  comes  a  click  in  his  internal 
time-clock,  he  may  set  out  upon  another  quest — • 
more  cabined,  cribbed,  and  confined  than  any 
member  of  a  Cook's  tourist  party. 

I  once  watched  an  ant  with  a  piece  of  leaf 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  IGl 

which  had  a  regular  shepherd's  crook  at  the  top, 
and  if  his  adventures  of  fifty  feet  could  have  been 
caught  on  a  moving-picture  film,  Charlie  Chap- 
lin would  have  had  an  arthropod  rival.  It  hooked 
on  stems  and  pulled  its  bearer  off  his  feet,  it  ca- 
reened and  ensnared  the  leaves  of  other  ants,  at 
one  place  mixing  up  with  half  a  dozen.  A  big 
thistledown  became  tangled  in  it,  and  well-nigh 
blew  away  with  leaf  and  all ;  hardly  a  foot  of  his 
path  was  smooth-going.  But  he  persisted,  and  I 
watched  him  reach  the  nest,  after  two  hours  of 
tugging  and  falling  and  interference  with  traffic. 

Occasionally  an  ant  will  slip  in  crossing  a 
twiggy  crevasse,  and  his  leaf  become  tightly 
wedged.  After  sprawling  on  his  back  and  vainly 
clawing  at  the  air  for  a  while,  he  gets  up,  brushes 
off  his  antennae,  and  sets  to  work.  For  fifteen 
minutes  I  have  watched  an  Atta  in  this  predica- 
ment, stodgily  endeavoring  to  lift  his  leaf  while 
standing  on  it  at  the  same  time.  The  equation 
of  push  equaling  pull  is  fourth  dimensional  to 
the  Attas. 

With  all  this  terrible  expenditure  of  energy, 
the  activities  of  these  ants  are  functional  within 
very  narrow  limits.  The  blazing  sun  causes  them 
to  drop  their  burdens  and  flee  for  home ;  a  heavy 


162  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

wind  frustrates  them,  for  they  cannot  reef. 
When  a  gale  arises  and  sweeps  an  exposed  por- 
tion of  the  trail,  their  only  resource  is  to  cut 
away  all  sail  and  heave  it  overboard.  A  sudden 
downpour  reduces  a  thousand  banners  and  wav- 
ing, bright-colored  petals  to  debris,  to  be  trod- 
den under  foot.  Sometimes,  after  a  ten-minute 
storm,  the  trails  will  be  carpeted  with  thousands 
of  bits  of  green  mosaic,  which  the  outgoing  hordes 
will  trample  in  their  search  for  more  leaves.  On 
a  dark  night  little  seems  to  be  done ;  but  at  dawn 
and  dusk,  and  in  the  moonlight  or  clear  star- 
light, the  greatest  activity  is  manifest. 

Attas  are  such  unpalatable  creatures  that  they 
are  singularly  free  from  dangers.  There  is  a 
tacit  armistice  between  them  and  the  other  labor- 
unions.  The  army  ants  occasionally  make  use 
of  their  trails  when  they  are  deserted ;  but  when 
the  two  great  races  of  ants  meet,  each  antennas 
the  aura  of  the  other,  and  turns  respectfully 
aside.  When  termites  wish  to  traverse  an  Atta 
trail,  they  burrow  beneath  it,  or  build  a  covered 
causeway  across,  through  which  they  pass  and 
repass  at  will,  and  over  which  the  Attas  trudge, 
uncaring  and  unconscious  of  its  significance. 

Only  creatures  with  the  toughtest  of  diges- 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  163 

tions  would  dare  to  include  these  prickly,  strong- 
jawed,  meatless  insects  in  a  bill  of  fare.     Now 
and  then  I  have  found  an  ani,  or  black  cuckoo, 
with  a  few  in  its  stomach:  but  an  ani  can  swal- 
low a  stinging-haired  caterpillar  and  enjoy  it. 
The  most  consistent  feeder  upon  Attas  is  the 
giant  marine  toad.     Two  hundred  Attas  in  a 
night  is  not  an  uncommon  meal,  the  exact  num- 
ber being  verifiable  by  a  count  of  the  undigested 
remains  of  heads  and  abdomens.    Bufo  marinus 
is  the  gardener's  best  friend  in  this  tropic  land, 
and  besides,  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  philoso- 
pher, if  ever  an  amphibian  was  one. 

While  the  cutting  of  living  foliage  is  the  chief 
aim  in  life  of  these  ants,  yet  they  take  advan- 
tage of  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  along  the  shore, 
and  each  low  tide  finds  a  colum.n  from  some  near- 
by nest  salvaging  flowerets,  leaves,  and  even  tiny 
berries.  A  sudden  wash  of  tide  lifts  a  hundred 
ants  with  their  burdens  and  then  sets  them  down 
again,  when  they  start  off  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

The  paths  or  trails  of  the  Attas  represent  very 
remarkable  feats  of  engineering,  and  wnnd  about 
through  jungle  and  glade  for  surprising  dis- 
tances.   I  once  traced  a  very  old  and  wide  trail 


164  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

for  well  over  two  hundred  yards.  Taking  little 
Third-of-an-inch  for  a  type  (although  he  would 
rank  as  a  rather  large  Atta),  and  comparing 
him  with  a  six-foot  man,  we  reckon  this  trail, 
ant-ratio,  as  a  full  twenty-five  miles.  Belt  re- 
cords a  leaf-cutter's  trail  half  a  mile  long,  which 
would  mean  that  every  ant  that  went  out,  cut 
his  tiny  bit  of  leaf,  and  returned,  would  traverse 
a  distance  of  a  hundred  and  sixteen  miles.  This 
was  an  extreme;  but  our  Atta  may  take  it  for 
granted,  speaking  antly,  that  once  on  the  home 
trail,  he  has,  at  the  least,  four  or  five  miles  ahead 
of  him. 

The  Atta  roads  are  clean  swept,  as  straight 
as  possible,  and  very  conspicuous  in  the  jungle. 
The  chief  high-roads  leading  from  very  large 
nests  are  a  good  foot  across,  and  the  white  sand 
of  their  beds  is  visible  a  long  distance  away.  I 
once  knew  a  family  of  opossums  living  in  a  stump 
in  the  center  of  a  dense  thicket.  When  they  left 
at  evening,  they  always  climbed  along  as  far  as 
an  Atta  trail,  dropped  down  to  it,  and  followed 
it  for  twenty  or  thirty  yards.  During  the  rains 
I  have  occasionally  found  tracks  of  agoutis  and 
deer  in  these  roads.  So  it  would  be  very  possi- 
ble for  the  Attas  to  lay  the  foundation  for  an 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  165 

animal  trail,  and  this,  a  la  calf-path,  for  the  street 
of  a  future  city. 

The  part  that  scent  plays  in  the  trails  is  evi- 
denced if  we  scatter  an  inch  or  two  of  fresh  sand 
across  the  road.  A  mass  of  ants  hanks  against 
the  strange  obstruction  on  both  sides,  on  the  one 
hand  a  solid  phalanx  of  waving  green  banners, 
and  on  the  other  a  mob  of  empty- jawed  workers 
with  wildly  waving  antenna?.  Scouts  from  both 
sides  slowly  wander  forward,  and  finally  reach 
one  another  and  pass  across.  But  not  for  ten 
minutes  does  anything  like  regular  traffic  begin 
again. 

When  carrying  a  large  piece  of  leaf,  and  trav- 
eling at  a  fair  rate  of  speed,  the  ants  average 
about  a  foot  in  ten  seconds,  although  many  go 
the  same  distance  in  five.  I  tested  the  speed  of 
an  Atta,  and  then  I  saw  that  its  leaf  seemed 
to  have  a  peculiar-shaped  bug  upon  it,  and  picked 
it  up  with  its  bearer.  Finding  the  blemish  to  be 
only  a  bit  of  fungus,  I  replaced  it.  Half  an 
hour  later  I  was  seated  by  a  trail  far  away,  when 
suddenly  my  ant  with  the  blemished  spot  ap- 
peared. It  was  unmistakable,  for  I  had  noticed 
that  the  spot  was  exactly  that  of  the  Egyptian 
symbol  of  life.    I  paced  the  trail,  and  found  that 


166  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

seventy  yards  away  it  joined  the  spot  where  I 
had  first  seen  my  friend.  So,  with  occasional 
spurts,  he  had  done  two  hundred  and  ten  feet 
in  thirty  minutes,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  picked  up  a  supercargo. 

Two  parts  of  hydrogen  and  one  of  oxygen, 
under  the  proper  stimulus,  invariably  result  in 
water;  two  and  two,  considered  calmly  and  with- 
out passion,  combine  into  four;  the  workings  of 
instinct,  especially  in  social  insects,  is  so  mechan- 
ical that  its  results  can  almost  be  demonstrated 
in  formula;  and  yet  here  was  my  Atta  leaf- 
carrier  burdened  with  a  minim.  The  worker  At- 
tas  vary  greatly  in  size,  as  a  glance  at  a  populous 
trail  will  show.  They  have  been  christened  mac- 
rergates,  desrnergates  and  micrergates;  or  we 
may  call  the  largest  Maxims,  the  average  middle 
class  Mediums,  and  the  tiny  chaps  INIinims,  and 
all  have  more  or  less  separate  functions  in  the 
ecology  of  the  colony.  The  Minims  are  replicas 
in  miniature  of  the  big  chaps,  except  that  their 
armor  is  pale  cinnamon  rather  than  chestnut. 
Although  they  can  bite  ferociously,  they  are  too 
small  to  cut  through  leaves,  and  they  have  very 
definite  duties  in  the  nest;  yet  they  are  found 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  167 

with  every  leaf-cutting  gang,  hastening  along 
with  their  larger  brethren,  but  never  doing  any- 
thing, that  I  could  detect,  at  their  journey's  end. 
I  have  a  suspicion  that  the  little  Minims,  who 
are  very  numerous,  function  as  light  cavalry; 
for  in  case  of  danger  they  are  as  eager  at  attack 
as  the  great  soldiers,  and  the  leaf-cutters,  ab- 
sorbed in  their  arduous  labor,  would  benefit 
greatly  from  the  immunity  ensured  by  a  flying 
corps  of  their  little  bulldog  comrades. 

I  can  readily  imagine  that  these  nestling  Min- 
ims become  weary  and  foot-sore  (like  bank- 
clerks  guarding  a  reservoir),  and  if  instinct  al- 
lows such  abominable  individuality,  they  must 
often  wish  themselves  back  at  the  nest,  for  every 
mile  of  a  Medium  is  three  miles  to  them. 

Here  is  where  our  mechanical  formula  breaks 
down;  for,  often,  as  many  as  one  in  every  five 
leaves  that  pass  bears  aloft  a  Minim  or  two,  cling- 
ing desperately  to  the  waving  leaf  and  getting 
a  free  ride  at  the  expense  of  the  already  over- 
burdened Medium.  Ten  is  the  extreme  number 
seen,  but  six  to  eight  Minims  collected  on  a  sin- 
gle leaf  is  not  uncommon.  Several  times  I  have 
seen  one  of  these  little  banner-riders  shift  deftly 


X6S  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

from  leaf  to  leaf,  when  a  swifter  carrier  passed 
by,  as  a  circus  bareback  rider  changes  steeds  at 
full  gallop. 

Once  I  saw  enacted  above  ground,  and  in  the 
light  of  day,  something  which  may  have  had  its 
roots  in  an  anlage  of  divine  discontent.  If  I 
were  describing  the  episode  half  a  century  ago, 
I  should  entitle  it,  "The  Battle  of  the  Giants, 
or  Emotion  Enthroned."  A  quadruple  line  of 
leaf-carriers  was  disappearing  down  a  hole  in 
front  of  the  laboratory,  bumped  and  pushed  by 
an  out-pouring,  empty- jawed  mass  of  workers. 
As  I  watched  them,  I  became  aware  of  an  area 
of  great  excitement  beyond  the  hole.  Getting 
down  as  nearly  as  possible  to  ant  height,  I  wit- 
nessed a  terrible  struggle.  Two  giants — of  the 
largest  soldier  Maxim  caste — were  locked  in  each 
other's  jaws,  and  to  my  horror,  I  saw  that  each 
had  lost  his  abdomen.  The  antenna  and  the 
abdomen  petiole  are  the  only  vulnerable  portions 
of  an  Atta,  and  long  after  he  has  lost  these  ap- 
parently dispensable  portions  of  his  anatomy,  he 
is  able  to  walk,  fight,  and  continue  an  active  but 
erratic  life.  These  mighty- jawed  fellows  seem 
never  to  come  to  the  surface  unless  danger 
threatens;   and  mv  mind  went   down   into   the 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  16^ 

black,  musty  depths,  where  it  is  the  duty  of  these 
soldiers  to  walk  about  and  wait  for  trouble. 
What  could  have  raised  the  ire  of  such  stolid 
neuters  against  one  another?  Was  it  sheer  lack 
of  something  to  do?  or  was  there  a  cell  or  two 
of  the  winged  caste  lying  fallow  within  their  bod- 
ies, which,  stirring  at  last,  inspired  a  will  to  bat- 
tle, a  passing  echo  of  romance,  of  the  activities 
of  the  male  Atta? 

Their  unnatural  combat  had  stirred  scores  of 
smaller  workers  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excite- 
ment. Now  and  then,  out  of  the  melee,  a  Me- 
dium would  emerge,  with  a  tiny  Minim  in  his 
jaws.  One  of  these  carried  his  still  living  bur- 
den many  feet  away,  along  an  unused  trail,  and 
dropped  it.  I  examined  the  small  ant,  and  found 
that  it  had  lost  an  antenna,  and  its  body  was 
crushed.  When  the  ball  of  fighters  cleared, 
twelve  small  ants  were  seen  clinging  to  the  legs 
and  heads  of  the  mutilated  giants,  and  now  and 
then  these  would  loosen  their  hold  on  each  other, 
turn,  and  crush  one  of  their  small  tormenters. 
Several  times  I  saw  a  Medium  rush  up  and  tear 
a  small  ant  away,  apparently  quite  insane  with 
excitement. 

Occasionally  the  least  exhausted  giant  would 


ITO  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

stagger  to  his  four  and  a  half  remaining  legs, 
hoist  his  assailant,  together  with  a  mass  of  the 
midgets,  high  in  air,  and  stagger  for  a  few  steps, 
before  falling  beneath  the  onrush  of  new  attack- 
ers. It  made  me  wish  to  help  the  great  insect, 
who,  for  aught  I  knew,  was  doomed  because  he 
was  different — because  he  had  dared  to  be  an. 
individual. 

I  left  them  struggling  there,  and  half  an  hour 
later,  when  I  returned,  the  episode  was  just  com- 
ing to  a  climax.  My  Atta  hero  was  exerting 
his  last  strength,  flinging  oif  the  pile  that  as- 
saulted him,  fighting  all  the  easier  because  of  the 
loss  of  his  heavy  body.  He  lurched  forward, 
dragging  the  second  giant,  now  dead,  not  to- 
ward the  deserted  trail  or  the  world  of  jungle 
around  him,  but  headlong  into  the  lines  of  stupid 
leaf -carriers,  scattering  green  leaves  and  flower- 
petals  in  all  directions.  Only  when  dozens  of 
ants  threw  themselves  upon  him,  many  of  them 
biting  each  other  in  their  wild  confusion,  did  he 
rear  up  for  the  last  time,  and,  with  the  whole 
mob,  rolled  down  into  the  yawning  mouth  of  the 
Atta  nesting-hole,  disappearing  from  view,  and 
carrying  with  him  all  those  hurrying  up  the  steep 
sides.     It  was  a  great  battle.    I  was  breathing 


A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION  171 

fast  with  sympathy,  and  whatever  his  cause,  I 
was  on  his  side. 

The  next  day  both  giants  were  l^'ing  on  the 
old,  disused  trail;  the  revolt  against  absolute 
democracy  was  over ;  ten  thousand  ants  passed  to 
and  fro  without  a  dissenting  thought,  or  any 
thought,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Attas  was  content. 


VIII 
THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 

Clambering  through  white,  pasty  mud  which 
stuck  to  our  boots  by  the  pound,  peering  through 
bitter  cold  mist  which  seemed  but  a  thinner  skim 
of  mud,  drenched  by  flurries  of  icy  drops  shaken 
from  the  atmosphere  by  a  passing  moan  and  a 
crash,  breathing  air  heavy  with  a  sweet,  horrible, 
penetrating  odor — such  was  the  world  as  it  ex- 
isted for  an  hour  one  night,  while  I  and  the  Com- 
mandant of  Doiiaumont  wandered  about  com- 
pletely lost,  on  the  top  of  his  own  fort.  We 
finally  stumbled  on  the  little  grated  opening 
through  which  the  lookout  peered  unceasingly 
over  the  landscape  of  mud.  The  mist  lifted  and 
we  rediscovered  the  cave-like  entrance,  watched 
for  a  moment  the  ominous  goldei^  dumb-bells 
rising  from  the  premier  ligne,  scraped  our  boots 
on  a  German  helmet  and  went  down  again  into 
the  strangest  sanctuary  in  the  world. 

This  was  the  vision  which  flashed  through  my 
mind  as  I  began  vigil  at  an  enormous  nest  of 

172 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  173 

Attas — the  leaf-cutting  ants  of  the  British  Gui- 
ana jungle.  In  front  of  me  was  a  glade,  about 
thirty  feet  across,  devoid  of  green  growth,  and 
filled  with  a  great  irregular  expanse  of  earth 
and  mud.  Relative  to  the  height  of  the  Attas, 
my  six  feet  must  seem  a  good  half  mile,  and 
from  this  height  I  looked  down  and  saw  again 
the  same  inconceivably  sticky  clay  of  France. 
There  were  the  rain-washed  gullies,  the  half- 
roofed  entrances  to  the  vast  underground  for- 
tresses, clean-swept,  perfect  roads,  as  efficient  as 
the  arteries  of  Verdun,  flapping  dead  leaves  like 
the  omnipresent,  worn-out  scare-crows  of  cam- 
ouflage, and  over  in  one  corner,  to  complete  the 
simile,  were  a  dozen  shell-holes,  the  homes  of 
voracious  ant-lions,  which,  for  passing  insects, 
were  unexploded  mines,  set  at  hair  trigger. 

My  Atta  city  was  only  two  hundred  feet  away 
from  the  laboratory,  in  fairly  high  jungle,  with- 
in sound  of  the  dinner  triangle,  and  of  the  lap- 
ping waves  on  the  Mazaruni  shore.  To  sit  near 
by  and  concentrate  solely  upon  the  doings  of 
these  ant  people,  was  as  easy  as  watching  a  sin- 
gle circus  ring  of  performing  elephants,  while 
two  more  rings,  a  maze  of  trapezes,  a  race  track 
ind  side-shows  were  in  full  swing.    The  jungle 


174  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

around  me  teemed  with  interesting  happenings 
and  distracting  sights  and  sounds.  The  very  last 
time  I  visited  the  nest  and  became  absorbed  in 
a  line  of  incoming  ants,  I  heard  the  shrill  squeak- 
ing of  an  angry  hummingbird  overhead.  I 
looked  up,  and  there,  ten  feet  above,  was  a  furry 
tamandua  anteater  slowly  climbing  a  straight 
purpleheart  trunk,  while  around  and  around  his 
head  buzzed  and  swore  the  little  fury — a  pinch 
of  cinnamon  feathers,  ablaze  with  rage.  The 
curved  claws  of  the  unheeding  anteater  fitted 
around  the  trunk  and  the  strong  prehensile  tail 
flattened  against  the  bark,  so  that  the  creature 
seemed  to  put  forth  no  more  exertion  than  if 
walking  along  a  fallen  log.  Now  and  then  it 
stopped  and  daintily  picked  at  a  bit  of  termite 
nest. 

With  such  side-shows  it  was  sometimes  diffi- 
cult to  concentrate  on  the  Attas.     Yet  they  of- 

ft.' 

fered  problems  for  years  of  study.  The  glade 
was  a  little  w^orld  in  itself,  wdth  visitors  and  ten- 
ants, comedy  and  tragedy,  sounds  and  silences. 
It  was  an  ant-made  glade,  with  all  new  growths 
either  choked  by  upflung,  earthen  hillocks,  or 
leaves  bitten  off  as  soon  as  they  appeared.  The 
casual  vistors  were  the  most  conspicuous,  an  qc- 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  175 

casional  trogon  swooping  across — a  glowing, 
feathered  comet  of  emerald,  azurite  and  gold; 
or,  slowly  drifting  in  and  out  among  the  vines 
and  coming  to  rest  with  waving  wings,  a  j^ellow 
and  red  spotted  Ithomiid, — or  was  it  a  Heli- 
coniid  or  a  Danaiid? — with  such  bewildering 
models  and  marvelous  mimics  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  without  capture  and  close  examination. 
Giant,  purple  tarantula-hawks  hummed  past, 
scanning  the  leaves  for  their  prey. 

Another  class  of  glade  haunters  were  those 
who  came  strictly  on  business, — plasterers  and 
sculptors,  who  found  wet  clay  ready  to  their 
needs.  Great  golden  and  rufous  bees  blundered 
down  and  gouged  out  bucketsful  of  mud;  while 
slender-bodied,  dainty,  ebony  wasps,  after  much 
fastidious  picking  of  place,  would  detach  a  tiny 
bit  of  the  whitest  clay,  place  it  in  their  snuff- 
box holder,  clean  their  feet  and  antenna,  run 
their  rapier  in  and  out  and  delicately  take  to 
wing. 

Little  black  trigonid  bees  had  their  special 
quarry,  a  small  deep  valley  in  the  midst  of  a 
waste  of  interlacing  Bad  Lands,  on  the  side  of  a 
precipitous  butte.  Here  they  picked  and  shov- 
eled  to   their  hearts'   content,   plastering   their 


176  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

thighs  until  their  wings  would  hardly  lift  them. 
They  braced  their  feet,  whirred,  lifted  unevenly, 
and  sank  back  with  a  jar.  Then  turning,  they 
bit  off  a  piece  of  ballast,  and  heaving  it  over  the 
precipice,  swung  off  on  an  even  keel. 

Close  examination  of  some  of  the  craters  and 
volcanic-like  cones  revealed  many  species  of  ants, 
beetles  and  roaches  searching  for  bits  of  food — 
the  scavengers  of  this  small  world.  But  the  most 
interesting  were  the  actual  parasites,  flies  of 
many  colors  and  sizes,  humming  past  like  little 
planes  and  zeppelins  over  this  hidden  city,  ready 
to  drop  a  bomb  in  the  form  of  an  egg  deposited 
on  the  refuse  heaps  or  on  the  ants  themselves. 
The  explosion  might  come  slowly,  but  it  would 
be  none  the  less  deadly.  Once  I  detected  a  hint 
of  the  complexity  of  the  glade  life — beautiful 
metallic  green  flies  walking  swiftly  about  on  long 
legs,  searching  nervously,  whose  eggs  would  be 
deposited  near  those  of  other  flies,  their  larvse  to 
feed  upon  the  others — parasites  upon  para- 
sites. 

As  1  iiaa  resolutely  put  the  doings  of  the  tree- 
tops  away  from  my  consciousness,  so  now  I  for- 
got visitors  and  parasites,  and  armed  myself  for 
the   excavation    of   this    buried   metropolis.      I 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  177 

rubbed  vaseline  on  my  high  boots,  and  about 
the  tops  bound  a  band  of  teased-out  absorbent 
cotton.  My  pick  and  shovel  I  treated  likewise, 
and  thus  I  was  comparatively  insulated.  With- 
out precautions  no  living  being  could  withstand 
the  slow,  implacable  attack  of  disturbed  Attas. 
At  present  I  walked  unmolested  across  the  glade. 
The  millions  beneath  my  feet  were  as  uncon- 
scious of  my  presence  as  they  were  of  the  breeze 
ii  the  palm  fronds  overhead. 

At  the  first  deep  shovel  thrust,  a  slow^-moving 
flood  of  reddish-brown  began  to  pour  forth  from 
the  crumbled  earth — the  outposts  of  the  Atta 
Maxims  moving  upward  to  the  attack.  For  a 
few  seconds  only  workers  of  various  sizes  ap- 
peared, then  an  enormous  head  heaved  upv/ard 
and  there  came  into  the  light  of  day  the  first  Atta 
soldier.  He  w^as  twice  as  large  as  a  large  worker 
and  heavy  in  proportion.  Instead  of  being 
drawn  up  into  two  spines,  the  top  of  his  head 
WMS  rounded,  bald  and  shiny,  and  only  at  the  back 
were  the  two  spines  visible,  shifted  downward. 
The  front  of  the  head  was  thickly  clothed  with 
golden  hair,  which  hung  down  bang-like  over 
a  round,  glistening,  single,  median  eye.  One  by 
one,  and  then  shoulder  to  shoulder,  these  Cyclo- 


178  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

pean  Maxims  lumbered  forth  to  battle,  and  soon 
my  boots  were  covered  in  spite  of  the  grease,  all 
sinking  their  mandibles  deep  into  the  leather. 

When  I  unpacked  these  boots  this  year  I 
found  the  heads  and  jaws  of  two  Attas  still 
firmly  attached,  relics  of  some  forgotten  foray 
of  the  preceding  year.  This  mechanical,  vise- 
like grip,  wholly  independent  of  life  or  death, 
is  utilized  by  the  Guiana  Indians.  In  place  of 
stitching  up  extensive  wounds,  a  number  of  these 
giant  Atta  Maxims  are  collected,  and  their  jaws 
applied  to  the  edges  of  the  skin,  which  are  drawn 
together.  The  ants  take  hold,  their  bodies  are 
snipped  oft,  and  the  row  of  jaws  remains  until 
the  wound  is  healed. 

Over  and  around  the  out-pouring  soldiers,  the 
tiny  workers  ran  and  bit  and  chewed  away  at 
whatever  they  could  reach.  Dozens  of  ants  made 
their  way  up  to  the  cotton,  but  found  the  utmost 
difficulty  in  clambering  over  the  loose  fluff.  Now 
and  then,  however,  a  needle-like  nip  at  the  back 
of  my  neck,  showed  that  some  pioneer  of  these 
shock  troops  had  broken  through,  when  I  was 
thankful  that  Attas  could  only  bite  and  not  sting 
as  well.  At  such  a  time  as  this,  the  greatest  dif- 
ference is  apparent  between  these  and  the  Eciton 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  179 

army  ants.  The  Eciton  soldier  with  his  long, 
curved  scimitars  and  his  swift,  nervous  move- 
ments, was  to  one  of  these  great  insects  as  a 
fighting  d'Artagnan  would  be  to  an  armored 
tank.  The  results  were  much  the  same  however, 
— perfect  efficiency. 

I  now  dug  swiftly  and  crashed  w^ith  pick  down 
through  three  feet  of  soil.  The  great  entrance 
arteries  of  the  nest  branched  and  bifurcated,  sep- 
arated and  anastomosed,  while  here  and  there 
were  chambers  varying  in  size  from  a  cocoanut 
to  a  football.  These  were  filled  with  what  looked 
like  soft  grayish  sponge  covered  with  whitish 
mold,  and  these  somber  affairs  were  the  raisoii 
d'etre  for  all  the  leaf -cutting,  the  trails,  the  strug- 
gles through  jungles,  the  constant  battling 
against  wind  and  rain  and  sun. 

But  the  labors  of  the  Attas  are  only  renewed 
when  a  worker  disappears  down  a  hole  with  his 
hard-earned  bit  of  leaf.  He  drops  it  and  goes 
on  his  way.  We  do  not  know  what  this  way  is, 
but  my  guess  is  that  he  turns  around  and  goes 
after  another  leaf.  Whatever  the  nests  of  At- 
tas possess,  they  are  without  recreation  rooms. 
These  sluggard-instructors  do  not  know  enough 
to  take  a  vacation;  their  faces  are  fashioned  for 


180  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

biting,  but  not  for  laughing  or  yawning.  I  once 
dabbed  fifteen  Mediums  with  a  touch  of  white 
paint  as  they  approached  the  nest,  and  w^ithin 
five  minutes  thirteen  of  them  had  emerged  and 
started  on  the  back  track  again. 

The  leaf  is  taken  in  charge  by  another  Me- 
dimn,  hosts  of  whom  are  everywhere.  Once  after 
a  spadeful,  I  placed  my  eye  as  close  as  possible 
to  a  small  heap  of  green  leaves,  and  around  one 
oblong  bit  were  five  ]Mediums,  each  with  a  con* 
siderable  amount  of  chewed  and  mumbled  tissue 
in  front  of  him.  This  is  the  onlv  tijne  I  have 
ever  succeeded  in  finding  these  ants  actually  at 
this  work.  The  leaves  are  chewed  thoroughly 
and  built  up  into  the  sponge  gardens,  being  used 
neither  for  thatch  nor  for  food,  but  as  fertilizer. 
And  not  for  any  strange  subterranean  berry  or 
kernel  or  fruit,  but  for  a  fungus  or  mushroom. 
The  spores  sprout  and  proliferate  rapidly,  the 
gray  mycelia  covering  the  garden,  and  at  the 
end  of  each  thread  is  a  little  knobbed  body  filled 
with  liquid.  This  forms  the  sole  food  of  the  ants 
in  the  nest,  but  a  drop  of  honey  placed  by  a  busy 
trail  will  draw  a  circle  of  workers  at  any  time — 
both  ]Mediums  and  Minims,  who  surround  it  and 
ririuk  their  fill. 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  l&l 

When  the  fungus  garden  is  in  full  growth,  the 
nest  kbors  of  the  Mininis  begin,  and  until  the 
knobbed  bodies  are  actually  ripe,  they  never 
cease  to  weed  and  to  prune,  thus  killing  off  the 
multitude  of  other  fungi  and  foreign  organisms, 
and  by  pruning  they  keep  their  particular  fun- 
gus growing,  and  prevent  it  from  fructifying. 
The  fungus  of  the  Attas  is  a  particular  species 
with  the  resonant,  Dunsanyesque  name  of  Boz- 
ites  gongylophora.  It  is  quite  unknown  outside 
of  the  nests  of  these  ants,  and  is  as  artificial  as 
a  banana. 

Only  in  Calcutta  bazaars  at  night,  and  in  un- 
derground streets  of  Pekin,  have  I  seen  stranger 
beings  than  I  unearthed  in  my  Atta  nest.  Now 
and  then  there  rolled  out  of  a  shovelful  of  earth, 
an  unbelievably  big  and  rotund  Cicada  larva — 
which  in  the  course  of  time,  whether  in  one  or 
in  seventeen  years,  would  emerge  as  the  great 
marbled  winged  Cicada  gigas,  spreading  five 
inches  from  tip  to  tip.  Small  tarantulas,  w^ith 
beautiful  wnne-colored  cephalothorax,  made  their 
home  deep  in  the  nest,  guarded,  perhaps,  by  their 
dense  covering  of  hair;  slender  scorpions  sidled 
out  from  the  ruins.  They  were  bare,  with  vul- 
nerable joints,  but  they  had  the  advantage  of 


182  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

a  pair  of  hands,  and  long,  mobile  arms,  which 
could  quickly  and  skilfully  pluck  an  attacking 
ant  from  any  part  of  their  anatomy. 

The  strangest  of  all  the  tenants  were  the  tiny, 
amber-colored  roaches  which  clung  frantically  to 
the  heads  of  the  great  soldier  ants,  or  scurried 
over  the  tumultuous  mounds,  searching  for  a 
crevice  sanctuary.  They  were  funny,  fat  little 
beings,  wholly  blind,  yet  supremely  conscious  of 
the  danger  that  threatened,  and  with  only  the 
single  thought  of  getting  below  the  surface  as 
quickly  as  possible.  The  Attas  had  very  few 
insect  guests,  but  this  cockroach  is  one  which 
had  made  himself  perfectly  at  home.  Through 
century  upon  century  he  had  become  more  and 
more  specialized  and  adapted  to  Atta  life,  eyes 
slipping  until  they  were  no  more  than  faint 
specks,  legs  and  antennas  changing,  gait  becom- 
ing altered  to  whatever  speed  and  carriage  best 
suited  little  guests  in  big  underground  halls  and 
galleries.  He  and  his  race  had  evolved  unseen 
and  unnoticed  even  by  the  ]Maxim  policemen. 
But  when  nineteen  hundred  humanly  historical 
years  had  passed,  a  man  with  a  keen  sense  of 
fitness  named  him  Little  Friend  of  the  Attas; 
and  so  for  a  few  more  years,  until  scientists  give 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  183 

place  to  the  next  caste,  Attaphila  will,  all  un- 
consciously, bear  a  name. 

Attaphilas  have  staked  their  whole  gamble  of 
existence  on  the  continued  possibility  of  guest- 
ship  with  the  Attas.  Although  they  lived  near 
the  fungus  gardens  they  did  not  feed  upon  them, 
but  gathered  secretions  from  the  armored  skin 
of  the  giant  soldiers,  who  apparently  did  not  ob- 
ject, and  showed  no  hostility  to  their  diminutive 
masseurs.  A  summer  boarder  may  be  quite  at 
home  on  a  farm,  and  safe  from  all  ordinary  dan- 
gers, but  he  must  keep  out  of  the  way  of  scythes 
and  sickles  if  he  chooses  to  haunt  the  hav-fields. 
And  so  Attaphila,  snug  and  safe,  deep  in  the 
heart  of  the  nest,  had  to  keep  on  the  qui  vive 
when  the  ant  harvesters  came  to  glean  in  the 
fungus  gardens.  Snip,  snip,  snip,  on  all  sides 
in  the  musty  darkness,  the  keen  mandibles 
sheared  the  edible  heads,  and  though  the  little 
Attaphilas  dodged  and  ran,  yet  most  of  them, 
in  course  of  time,  lost  part  of  an  antenna  or  even 
a  whole  one. 

Thus  the  Little  Friend  of  the  Leaf-cutters 
lives  easily  through  his  term  of  weeks  or  months, 
or  perhaps  even  a  year,  and  has  nothing  to  fear 
for  food  or  mate,  or  from  enemies.     But  Atta- 


184  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

philas  cannot  all  live  in  a  single  nest,  and  we 
realize  that  there  must  come  a  crisis,  when  they 
pass  out  into  a  strange  world  of  terrible  light 
and  multitudes  of  foes.  For  these  pampered, 
degenerate  roaches  to  find  another  Atta  nest  un- 
aided, would  be  inconceivable.  In  the  big  nest 
which  I  excavated  I  observed  them  on  the  back 
and  heads  not  only  of  the  large  soldiers,  but  also 
of  the  queens  which  swarmed  in  one  portion  of 
the  galleries ;  and  indeed,  of  twelve  queens,  seven 
had  roaches  clinging  to  them.  This  has  been 
noted  also  of  a  Brazilian  species,  and  we  sud* 
denly  realize  what  splendid  sports  these  humble 
insects  are.  They  resolutely  prepare  for  their 
gamble — Vaventure  magnifique — the  slenderest 
lighting  chance,  and  we  are  almost  inclined  to 
forget  the  irresponsible  implacability  of  instinct, 
and  cheer  the  little  fellows  for  lining  up  on  this 
forlorn  hope.  When  the  time  comes,  the  queens 
leave,  and  are  off  up  into  the  unheard-of  sky, 
as  if  an  earthworm  should  soar  with  eagle's  feath- 
ers ;  past  the  gauntlet  of  voracious  flycatchers  and 
hawks,  to  the  millionth  chance  of  meeting  an 
acceptable  male  of  the  same  species.  After  the 
mating,  comes  the  solitary  search  for  a  suitable 
site,  and  only  when  the  pitifully  unfair  gamble 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  185 

has  been  won  by  a  single  fortunate  queen,  does 
the  Attaphila  climb  tremblingly  down  and  ac- 
cept what  fate  has  sent.  His  ninety  and  nine 
fellows  have  met  death  in  almost  as  many  ways. 

With  the  exception  of  these  strange  inmates 
there  are  very  few  tenants  or  guests  in  the  nests 
of  the  Attas.  Unlike  the  termites  and  Ecitons, 
who  harbor  a  host  of  weird  boarders,  the  leaf- 
cutters  are  able  to  keep  their  nest  free  from  un- 
desirables. 

Once,  far  down  in  the  nest,  I  came  upon  three 
young  queens,  recently  emerged,  slow  and  stupid, 
with  wings  dull  and  glazed,  who  crawled  with 
awkward  haste  back  into  darkness.  And  again 
twelve  winged  females  were  grouped  in  one  small 
chamber,  restless  and  confused.  This  was  the 
only  glimpse  I  ever  had  of  Atta  royalty  at  home. 

Good  fortune  was  with  me,  however,  on  a 
memorable  fifth  of  May,  when  returning  from 
a  monkey  hunt  in  high  jungle.  As  I  came  out 
into  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  a  low  humming  at- 
tracted my  attention.  It  was  ventriloquial,  and 
my  ear  refused  to  trace  it.  It  sounded  exactly 
like  a  great  aerodrome  far  in  the  distance,  with 
a  score  or  more  of  planes  tuning  up.  I  chanced 
to  see  a  large  bee-like  insect  rising  through  the 


186  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

branches,  and  following  back  along  its  path,  I 
suddenly  perceived  the  rarest  of  sights — an  Atta 
nest  entrance  boiling  with  the  excitement  of  a 
flight  of  winged  kings  and  queens.  So  engrossed 
were  the  ants  that  they  paid  no  attention  to  me, 
and  I  was  able  to  creep  up  close  and  kneel  with- 
in two  feet  of  the  hole.  The  main  nest  was 
twenty  feet  away,  and  this  was  a  special  exit 
made  for  the  occasion — a  triumphal  gateway 
erected  far  away  from  the  humdrum  leaf  traffic. 
The  two-inch,  arched  hole  led  obliquely  down 
into  darkness,  while  brilliant  sunshine  illumined 
the  earthen  take-off  and  the  surrounding  mass 
of  pink  Mazaruni  primroses.  Up  this  corridor 
was  coming,  slowly,  with  dignity,  as  befitted  the 
occasion,  a  pageant  of  royalty.  The  king  males 
were  more  active,  as  they  were  smaller  in  size 
than  the  females,  but  they  were  veritable  giants 
in  comparison  with  the  workers.  The  queens 
seemed  like  beings  of  another  race,  with  their 
great  bowed  thorax  supporting  the  folded  wings, 
heads  correspondingly  large,  with  less  jaw  devel- 
opment, but  greatly  increased  keenness  of  vis- 
ion. In  comparison  with  the  Minims,  these 
queens  were  as  a  human  being  one  hundred  feet 
in  hei^rht. 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  187 

I  selected  one  large  queen  as  she  appeared  and 
watched  her  closely.  Slowly  and  with  great  ef- 
fort she  climbed  the  steep  ascent  into  the  blazing 
sunlight.  Five  tiny  Minims  were  clinging  to  her 
body  and  wings,  all  scrubbing  and  cleaning  as 
hard  as  they  could.  She  chose  a  clear  space, 
spread  her  wings,  wide  and  flat,  stood  high  upon 
her  six  legs  and  waited.  I  fairly  shouted  at  this 
change,  for  sliglit  though  it  was,  it  worked  magic, 
and  the  queen  Atta  was  a  queen  no  more,  but 
a  miniature,  straddle-legged  aeroplane,  pushed 
into  position,  and  overrun  by  a  crowd  of  mechan- 
ics, putting  the  finishing  touches,  tightening  the 
wires,  oiling  every  pliable  crevice.  A  ^ledium 
came  along,  tugged  at  a  leg  and  the  obliging 
little  plane  lifted  it  for  inspection.  For  three 
minutes  this  kept  up,  and  then  the  plane  became 
a  queen  and  moved  restlessly.  Without  warn- 
ing, as  if  some  irresponsible  mechanic  had  turned 
the  primed  propellers,  the  four  mighty  wings 
whirred — and  four  Minims  were  hurled  head  over 
heels  a  foot  away,  snapped  from  their  positions. 
The  sound  of  the  wings  was  almost  too  exact 
an  imitation  of  the  snarl  of  a  starting  plane — 
the  comparison  was  absurd  in  its  exactness  of 
timbre  and  resonance.    It  was  only  a  test,  how- 


188  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

ever,  and  the  moment  the  queen  became  quiet 
the  upset  mechanics  clambered  back.  They 
crawled  beneath  her,  scraped  her  feet  and  an- 
tenna?, licked  her  eyes  and  jaws,  and  went  over 
every  shred  of  wing  tissue.  Then  again  ;she 
buzzed,  this  time  sending  only  a  single  Minim 
sprawling.  Again  she  stopped  after  lifting  her- 
self an  inch,  but  immediately  started  up,  and 
now  rose  rather  unsteadily,  but  without  pause, 
and  slowly  ascended  above  the  nest  and  the  prim- 
roses. Circling  once,  she  passed  through  green 
leaves  and  glowing  balls  of  fruit,  into  the  blue 
sky. 

Thus  I  followed  the  passing  of  one  queen  Atta 
into  the  jungle  world,  as  far  as  human  eyes 
would  permit,  and  my  mind  returned  to  the  mote 
which  I  had  detected  at  an  equally  great  height 
' — the  queen  descending  after  her  marriage — as 
isolated  as  she  had  started. 

We  have  seen  how  the  little  blind  roaches  oc- 
casionally cling  to  an  emerging  queen  and  so 
are  transplanted  to  a  new  nest.  But  the  queen 
bears  something  far  more  valuable.  More  faith- 
fully than  ever  virgin  tended  temple  fires,  each 
departing  queen  fills  a  little  pouch  in  the  lower 
part  of  her  mouth  with  a  pellet  of  the  precious 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  189 

fungus,  and  here  it  is  carefully  guarded  until 
the  time  comes  for  its  propagation  in  the  new 
nest. 

When  she  has  descended  to  earth  and  exca- 
vated a  little  chamber,  she  closes  the  entrance, 
and  for  forty  days  and  nights  labors  at  the  found- 
ing of  a  new  colony.  She  plants  the  little  fun« 
gus  cutting  and  tends  it  with  the  utmost  solici- 
tude. The  care  and  feeding  in  her  past  life  have 
stored  within  her  the  substance  for  vast  numbers 
of  eggs.  Nine  out  of  ten  which  she  lays  she  eats 
to  give  her  the  strength  to  go  on  with  her  labors, 
and  when  the  first  larvae  emerge,  they,  too,  are 
fed  with  surplus  eggs.  In  time  they  pupate  and 
at  the  end  of  six  weeks  the  first  workers — all  tiny 
Minims — hatch.  Small  as  they  are,  born  in  dark- 
ness, yet  no  education  is  needed.  The  Spirit  of 
the  Attas  infuses  them.  Play  and  rest  are  the 
only  things  incomprehensible  to  them,  and  they 
take  charge  at  once,  of  fungus,  of  excavation, 
of  the  care  of  the  queen  and  eggs,  the  feeding 
of  the  larvae,  and  as  soon  as  the  huskier  INIediums 
appear,  they  break  through  into  the  upper  world 
and  one  day  the  first  bit  of  green  leaf  is  carried 
down  mto  the  nest. 


190  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

The  queen  rests.  Henceforth,  as  far  as  we 
know,  she  becomes  a  mere  egg-producing  ma- 
chine, fed  mechanically  by  mechanical  workers, 
the  food  transformed  by  physiological  mechan- 
ics into  yolk  and  then  deposited.  The  aeroplane 
has  become  transformed  into  an  incubator. 

One  wonders  whether,  throughout  the  long 
hours,  weeks  and  months,  in  darkness  which  ren- 
der* her  eyes  a  mockery,  there  ever  comes  to  her 
dull  ganglion  a  flash  of  memory  of  The  Day,  of 
the  rushing  wind,  the  escape  from  pursuing  puff- 
birds,  the  jungle  stretching  away  for  miles  be- 
neath, her  mate,  the  cool  tap  of  drops  from  a 
passing  shower,  the  volplane  to  earth,  and  the 
obliteration  of  all  save  labor.  Did  she  once  look 
behind  her,  did  she  turn  aside  for  a  second,  just 
to  feel  the  cool  silk  of  petals? 

As  we  have  seen,  an  Atta  worker  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  most  implacable  labor-union  in  the 
world :  he  believes  in  a  twentv-f our  hour  day,  no 
pay,  no  play,  no  rest — he  is  a  cog  in  a  machine- 
driven  Good-for-the-greatest-number.  After 
studying  these  beings  for  a  week,  one  longs  to 
go  out  and  shout  for  kaisers  and  tsars,  for  self- 
ishness and  crime — anything  as  a  relief  from  such 
terrible  unthinking  altruism.    All  Atta  workers 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  191 

are  born  free  and  equal — which  is  well;  and  they 
remain  so — which  is  what  a  Buddhist  priest  once 
called  "gashang" — or  so  it  sounded,  and  which 
he  explained  as  a  state  where  plants  and  animals 
and  men  were  crystal-like  in  growth  and  exist- 
ence. What  a  welcome  sight  it  would  be  to  see 
a  Medium  mount  a  bit  of  twig,  antennae  a  crowd 
of  Minims  about  him,  and  start  off  on  a  foray 
of  his  own! 

We  may  jeer  or  condemn  the  Attas  for  their 
hard-shell  existence,  but  there  comes  to  mind 
again  and  again,  the  wonder  of  it  all.  Are  the 
hosts  of  little  beings  really  responsible ;  have  they 
not  evolved  into  a  pocket,  a  mental  cul-de-sac,  a 
swamping  of  individuality,  pooling  their  person- 
alities? And  what  is  it  they  have  gained — what 
pledge  of  success  in  food,  in  safety,  in  propaga- 
tion? They  are  not  separate  entities,  they  have 
none  of  the  freedom  of  action,  of  choice,  of  in- 
dividuality of  the  solitary  wasps.  They  are  the 
somatic  cells  of  the  body  politic,  while  deep  with- 
in the  nest  are  the  guarded  sexual  cells — the 
winged  kings  and  queens,  which  from  time  to 
time,  exactly  as  in  isolated  organisms,  are  thrown 
off  to  propagate,  and  to  found  new  nests.  They, 
no  less  than  the  workers,  are  parts  of  something 


192  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

more  subtle  than  the  visible  Attas  and  their  ma- 
terial nest.  Whether  I  go  to  the  ant  as  slug- 
gard, or  myrmocologist,  or  accidentally,  via  Pter- 
odactyl Pups,  a  day  spent  with  them  invariably 
leaves  me  with  my  whole  being  concentrated  on 
this  mysterious  Atta  Ego.  Call  it  Vibration, 
Aura,  Spirit  of  the  nest,  clothe  ignorance  in 
whatever  term  seems  appropriate,  we  cannot 
deny  its  existence  and  power. 

As  with  the  Army  ants,  the  flowing  lines  of 
leaf-cutters  always  brought  to  mind  great  arter- 
ies, filled  with  pulsating,  tumbling  corpuscles. 
When  an  obstruction  appeared,  as  a  fallen  leaf, 
across  the  great  sandy  track,  a  dozen,  or  twenty 
or  a  hundred  workers  gathered — like  leucocytes 
— and  removed  the  interfering  object.  If  I  in- 
jured a  worker  who  was  about  to  enter  the  nest, 
I  inoculated  the  Atta  organism  with  a  pernicious, 
foreign  body.  Even  the  victim  himself  was  dimly 
aware  of  the  law  of  fitness.  Again  and  again 
he  yielded  to  the  call  of  the  nest,  only  to  turn 
aside  at  the  last  moment.  From  a  normal  link 
in  the  endless  Atta  chain,  he  had  become  an  out- 
cast— snapped  at  by  every  passing  ant,  self -ban- 
ished, wandering  off  at  nightfall  to  die  some- 
where in  the  wilderness  of  grass.     When  well. 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME  193 

an  Atta  has  relations  but  no  friends,  when  ill, 
every  jaw  is  against  him. 

As  I  write  this  seated  at  my  laboratory  table, 
by  turning  down  my  lamp  and  looking  out,  I 
can  see  the  star  dust  of  Orion's  nebula,  and  with- 
out moving  from  my  chair,  Rigel,  Sirius,  Ca- 
pella  and  Betelgeuze — the  blue,  white,  yellow 
and  red  evolution  of  so-called  lifeless  cosmic  mat- 
ter. A  few  slides  from  the  aquarium  at  my  side 
reveal  an  evolutionary  sequence  to  the  heavenly 
host — the  simplest  of  earthly  organisms  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  the  borderland,  not  only  of 
plants  and  animals,  but  of  the  one  and  of  the 
many-celled.  First  a  swimming  lily,  S  ten  tor,  a  sol- 
itary animal  bloom,  twenty-five  to  the  inch;  Co- 
thurnia,  a  double  lily,  and  Gonium,  with  a  quar- 
tet of  cells  clinging  tremulously  together,  pro- 
gressing unsteadily — materially  toward  the  rim 
of  my  field  of  vision — in  the  evoluti£)n  of  earthly 
life  toward  sponges,  peripatus,  ants  and  man. 

I  was  interrupted  in  my  microcosmus  just  as 
it  occurred  to  me  that  Chesterton  would  heartily 
approve  of  my  approximation  of  Sirius  and  S ten- 
tor,  of  Capella  and  Cothurnia — the  universe  bal- 
anced. My  attention  was  drawn  from  the  atom 
Gonium — whose  brave  little  spirit  was  striving  to 


194  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

keep  his  foursome  one — a  primordial  struggle 
toward  unity  of  self  and  division  of  labor;  my 
consciousness  climbed  the  microscope  tube  and 
came  to  rest  upon  a  slim  glass  of  amber  liquid 
on  my  laboratory  table:  a  servant  had  brought 
a  cocktail,  for  it  was  Xew  Year's  Eve.  (Now 
the  thought  came  that  there  were  a  number  of 
worthy  people  who  would  also  approve  of  this 
approximation!)  I  looked  at  the  small  spirit- 
uous luxury,  and  I  thought  of  my  friends  in 
New  York,  and  then  of  the  Attas  in  front  of 
the  laboratory.  With  my  electric  flash  I  went 
out  into  the  starlight,  and  found  the  usual  hosts 
struggling  nestward  with  their  chlorophyll  bur- 
dens, and  rushing  frantically  out  into  the  black 
jungle  for  more  and  yet  more  leaves.  ]My  mind 
swept  back  over  evolution  from  star-dust  to  Kar- 
tabo  compound,  from  Gonium  to  man,  and  to 
these  leaf-cutting  ants.  And  I  wondered 
whether  the  Attas  were  any  the  better  for  be- 
ing  denied  the  stimulus  of  temptation,  or 
whether  I  was  any  the  worse  for  the  opportunity 
of  refusing  a  second  glass.  I  w^ent  back  into 
the  house,  and  voiced  a  toast  to  tolerance,  to 
temperance,  and — to  pterodactyls — and  drank 
my  cocktail. 


IX 
HAMMOCK  NIGHTS 

Theee  is  a  great  gulf  between  pancakes  and 
truffles:  an  eternal,  fixed,  abysmal  canon.  It 
is  like  the  chasm  between  beds  and  hammocks. 
It  is  not  to  be  denied  and  not  to  be  traversed; 
for  if  pancakes  with  syrup  are  a  necessary  of 
life,  then  truffles  with  anything  must  be,  by  the 
very  nature  of  things,  a  supreme  and  undisputed 
luxury,  a  regal  food  for  royalty  and  the  chosen 
of  the  earth.  There  cannot  be  a  shadow  of  a 
doubt  that  these  two  are  divided;  and  it  is  not 
alone  a  mere  arbitrary  division  of  poverty  and 
riches  as  it  would  appear  on  the  surface.  It  is 
an  alienation  brought  about  by  profound  and 
fundamental  differences;  for  the  gulf  between 
them  is  that  gulf  which  separates  the  prosaic, 
the  ordinary,  the  commonj)lace,  from  all  that  is 
colored  and  enlivened  bj^  romance. 

The  romance  of  truffles  endows  the  verv  word 

« 

itself  with  a  halo,  an  aristocratic  halo  full   of 
mystery  and  suggestion.     One  remembers  the 


196  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

hunters  who  must  track  their  quarry  through 
marshy  and  treacherous  lands,  and  one  cannot 
forget  their  confidhig  catspaw,  that  desolated 
pig,  created  only  to  be  betrayed  and  robbed  of 
the  fungi  of  his  labors.  He  is  one  of  the  pathetic 
characters  of  history,  born  to  secret  sorrow,  vic- 
timized by  those  superior  tastes  which  do  not  be- 
come his  lowly  station.  Born  to  labor  and  to 
suffer,  but  not  to  eat.  To  this  day  he  commands 
my  sympathy;  his  ghost — lean,  bourgeois,  re- 
proachful— looks  out  at  me  from  every  market- 
place in  the  world  where  the  truffle  proclaims 
his  faithful  service. 

But  .the  pancake  is  a  pancake,  nothing  more. 
It  is  without  inherent  or  artificial  glamour;  and 
this  unfortunately,  when  you  come  right  down 
to  it,  is  true  of  food  in  general.  For  food,  after 
all,  is  one  of  the  lesser  considerations;  the  con- 
noisseur, the  gourmet,  even  the  gourmand, 
spends  no  more  than  four  hours  out  of  the  day 
at  his  table.  From  the  cycle,  he  may  select  four 
in  which  to  eat;  but  whether  he  will  or  not,  he 
must  set  aside  seven  of  the  twenty-four  in  which 
to  sleep. 

Sleeping,  then,  as  opposed  to  eating,  is  of  al- 
most double  importance,  since  it  consumes  nearly 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  197 

twice  as  much  time — and  time,  in  itself,  is  the 
most  valuable  thing  in  the  world.  Considered 
from  this  angle,  it  seems  incredible  that  we  have 
no  connoisseurs  of  sleep.  For  we  have  none. 
Therefore  it  is  with  some  temerity  that  I  declare 
sleep  to  be  one  of  the  romances  of  existence,  and 
not  by  any  chance  the  simple  necessary  it  is  re- 
puted to  be. 

However,  this  romance,  in  company  with 
whatever  is  worthy,  is  not  to  be  discovered  with- 
out the  proper  labor.  Life  is  not  all  truffles. 
Neither  do  they  grow  in  modest  back-yards  to 
be  picked  of  mornings  by  the  maid-of-all-work. 
A  mere  bed,  notwithstanding  its  magic  cam- 
ouflage of  coverings,  of  canopy,  of  disguised  pil- 
lows, of  shining  brass  or  fluted  carven  posts,  is, 
pancake  like,  never  surrounded  by  this  aura  of 
romance.  No,  it  is  hammock  sleep  which  is  the 
sweetest  of  all  slumber.  Not  in  the  hideous, 
dyed  affairs  of  our  summer  porches,  wn'th  their 
miserable  curved  sticks  to  keep  the  strands  apart, 
and  their  maddening  creaks  which  grow  in  length 
and  discord  the  higher  one  swings — but  in  a 
hammock  woven  by  Carib  Indians.  An  Indian 
hammock  selected  at  random  will  not  suffice;  it 
must  be  a  Carib  and  none  other.  For  they,  them-' 


198  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

selves,  are  part  and  parcel  of  the  romance,  since 
they  are  not  alone  a  quaint  and  poetic  people, 
but  the  direct  descendants  of  those  remote  Amer- 
icans who  were  the  first  to  see  the  caravels  of 
Columbus.  Indeed,  he  paid  the  initial  tribute 
to  their  skill,  for  in  the  diary  of  his  first  voyage 
he  writes, — 

"A  great  many  Indians  in  canoes  came  to 
the  ship  to-day  for  the  purpose  of  bartering  their 
cotton,  and  hamacas  or  nets  in  which  they  sleep." 

It  is  supposed  that  this  name  owes  its  being 
to  the  hamack  tree,  from  the  bark  of  which 
they  were  woven.  However  that  may  be,  the 
modern  hammock  of  these  tropical  Red  Men  is 
so  light  and  so  delicate  in  texture  that  during 
the  day  one  may  wear  it  as  a  sash,  while  at  night 
it  forms  an  incomparable  couch. 

But  one  does  not  drop  off  to  sleep  in  this  be- 
fore a  just  and  proper  preparation.  This  pre- 
sents complexities.  First,  the  hammock  must 
be  slung  with  just  the  right  amount  of  tautness; 
then,  the  novice  must  master  the  knack  of  wind- 
ing himself  in  his  blanket  that  he  may  slide  gently 
into  his  aerial  bed  and  rest  at  right  angles  to  the 
tied  ends,  thus  permitting  the  free  side-meshes 
to  curl  up  naturally  over  his  feet  and  head.    This 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  199 

cannot  be  taught.  It  is  an  art;  and  any  art  is 
one-tenth  technique,  and  nine-tenths  natural  tal- 
ent. However,  it  is  possible  to  acquire  a  certain 
virtuosity,  which,  after  all  is  said,  is  but  pure 
mechanical  skill  as  opposed  to  sheer  genius.  One 
might,  perhaps,  get  a  hint  by  watching  the  living 
chrysalid  of  a  potential  moon-moth  wriggle  back 
into  its  cocoon — but  little  is  to  be  learned  from 
human  teaching.  However,  if,  night  after  night, 
one  observes  his  Indians,  a  certain  instinctive 
knowledge  will  arise  to  aid  and  abet  him  in  his 
task.  Then,  after  his  patient  apprenticeship,  he 
may  reap  as  he  has  sowed.  If  it  is  to  be  disaster, 
it  is  as  immediate  as  it  is  ignominious ;  but  if  suc- 
cess is  to  be  his  portion,  then  he  is  destined  to 
rest,  wholly  relaxed,  upon  a  couch  encushioned 
and  resilient  beyond  belief.  He  finds  himself 
exalted  and  supreme  above  all  mundane  disturb- 
ances, with  the  treetops  and  the  stars  for  his  can- 
opy, and  the  earth  a  shadowy  floor  far  beneath. 
This  gentle  aerial  support  is  distributed  through- 
out hundreds  of  fine  meshes,  and  the  sole  con- 
tact with  the  earth  is  through  twin  living  boles, 
pulsing  with  swift  running  sap,  whose  lichened 
bark  and  moonlit  foliage  excel  any  tapestry  of 
man's  devising. 


200  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Perhaps  it  is  atavistic — this  desire  to  rest  and 
swing  in  a  hamaca.  For  these  are  not  unlike 
the  treetop  couches  of  our  arboreal  ancestors, 
such  a  one  as  I  have  seen  an  orang-utan  weave 
m  a  few  minutes  in  the  swaying  crotch  of  a  tree. 
At  any  rate,  the  hammock  is  not  dependent  upon 
four  walls,  upon  rooms  and  houses,  and  it  par- 
takes altogether  of  the  wilderness.  Its  move- 
ment is  £eolian — yielding  to  every  breath  of  air. 
It  has  even  its  own  weird  harmony — for  I  have 
often  heard  a  low,  w^histling  hum  as  the  air  rushed 
through  the  cordage  mesh.  In  a  sudden  tropical 
gale  every  taut  strand  of  my  hamaca  has  seemed 
a  separate,  melodious,  orchestral  note,  while  I 
was  buffeted  to  and  fro,  marking  time  to  some 
rhythmic  and  reckless  tune  of  the  wind  playing 
fortissimo  on  the  woven  strings  about  me.  The 
climax  of  this  musical  outburst  was  not  without 
a  mild  element  of  danger — sufficient  to  create 
that  enviable  state  of  mind  w^herein  the  sense  of 
security  and  the  knowdedge  that  a  minor  catas- 
trophe may  perhaps  be  brought  about  are 
weighed  one  against  the  other. 

Special,  unexpected,  and  interesting  minor 
dangers  are  also  the  province  of  the  hamaca. 
Once,  in  the  tropics,  a  great  fruit  fell  on  the 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  201 

elastic  strands  and  bounced  upon  my  body. 
There  was  an  ominous  swish  of  the  air  in  the 
sweeping  arc  which  this  missile  described,  also 
a  goodly  shower  of  leaves;  and  since  the  fusillade 
took  place  at  midnight,  it  was,  all  in  all,  a  some- 
what alarming  visitation.  However,  there  were 
no  honorable  scars  to  mark  its  advent ;  and  what 
is  more  important,  from  all  my  hundreds  of  ham- 
mock nights,  I  have  no  other  memory  of  any 
actual  or  threatened  danger  which  was  not  due 
to  human  carelessness  or  stupidity.  It  is  true 
that  once,  in  another  continent,  by  the  light  of 
a  campfire,  I  saw  the  long,  liana-like  body  of  a 
harmless  tree-snake  wind  down  from  one  of  my 
fronded  bed-posts  and,  like  a  living  woof  fol- 
lowing its  shuttle,  weave  a  passing  pattern  of 
emerald  through  the  pale  meshes.  But  this  her- 
alded no  harm,  for  the  poisonous  reptiles  of  that 
region  never  climb;  and  so,  since  I  was  worn 
out  by  a  hard  day,  I  shut  my  eyes  and  slept 
neither  better  nor  worse  because  of  the  transient 
confidence  of  a  neighborly  serpent. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  wilderness  provides 
but  few  real  perils,  and  in  a  hammock  one  is 
safely  removed  from  these.  One  lies  in  a  stratum 
above  all  damp  and  chill  of  the  ground,  be- 


202  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

yond  the  reach  of  crawling  tick  and  looping 
leech;  and  with  an  enveloping  mosquitaro,  or 
mosquito  shirt,  as  the  Venezuelans  call  it,  one 
is  fortified  even  in  the  worst  haunts  of  these  most 
disturbing  of  all  pests. 

Once  my  ring  rope  slipped  and  the  hammock 
settled,  but  not  enough  to  wake  me  up  and  force 
me  to  set  it  to  rights.  I  was  aware  that  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong,  but,  half  asleep,  I  pre- 
ferred to  leave  the  matter  in  the  lap  of  the  gods. 
Later,  as  a  result,  I  was  awakened  several  times 
by  the  patting  of  tiny  paws  against  my  body, 
as  small  jungle-folk,  standing  on  their  hind-legs, 
essayed  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  swaying, 
silent,  bulging  affair  directly  overhead.  I  was 
unlike  any  tree  or  branch  or  liana  which  had 
come  their  way  before ;  I  do  not  doubt  that  they 
thought  me  some  new  kind  of  ant-nest,  since 
these  structures  are  alike  only  as  their  purpose 
in  life  is  identical — for  they  express  every  pos- 
sible variation  in  shape,  size,  color,  design,  and 
position.  As  for  their  curiosity,  I  could  make 
no  complaint,  for,  at  best,  my  visitors  could  not 
be  so  inquisitive  as  I,  inasmuch  as  I  had  crossed 
one  ocean  and  two  continents  with  no  greater 
object  than  to  pry  into  their  personal  and  civic 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  203 

affairs  as  well  as  those  of  their  neighbors.  To 
say  nothing  of  their  environment  and  other- 
matters. 

That  my  rope  slipped  was  the  direct  result 
of  my  own  inefficiency.  The  hammock  protects 
one  from  the  dangers  of  the  outside  world,  but 
like  any  man-made  structure,  it  s]lo^\s  evidences 
of  those  imperfections  which  are  part  and  parcel 
of  human  nature,  and  serve,  no  dou})t,  to  make 
it  interesting.  But  one  may  at  least  strive  for 
perfection  by  being  careful.  Therefore  tie  the 
ropes  of  your  hammock  yourself,  or  examine  and 
test  the  job  done  for  you.  The  master  of  ham- 
mocks makes  a  knot  the  name  of  which  I  do  not 
know — I  cannot  so  much  as  describe  it.  But 
I  would  like  to  twist  it  again — two  quick  turns, 
a  push  and  a  pull;  then,  the  greater  the  strain 
put  upon  it,  the  greater  its  resistance. 

This  trustworthiness  commands  respect  and 
admiration,  but  it  is  in  the  morning  that  one 
feels  the  glow  of  real  gratitude;  for,  in  striking 
camp  at  dawn,  one  has  but  to  give  a  single  jerk 
and  the  rope  is  straightened  out,  without  so  much 
as  a  second's  delay.  It  is  the  tying,  however, 
which  must  be  well  done — this  I  learned  from 
bitter  experience. 


204.  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

It  was  one  morning,  years  ago,  but  the  mem- 
ory of  it  is  with  me  still,  vivid  and  painful.  One 
of  the  party  had  left  her  hammock,  which  was 
tied  securely  since  she  was  skilful  in  such  mat- 
ters, to  sit  down  and  rest  in  another,  belonging 
to  a  servant.  This  was  slung  at  one  end  of  a 
high,  tropical  porch,  which  was  without  the  rail- 
ing that  surrounds  the  more  pretentious  verandahs 
of  civilization,  so  that  the  hammock  swung  free, 
first  over  the  rough  flooring,  then  a  little  out 
over  the  yard  itself.  A  rope  slipped,  the  faulty 
knot  gave  way,  and  she  fell  backward — a  seven- 
foot  fall  with  no  support  of  any  kind  by  which 
she  might  save  herself.  A  broken  wrist  was  the 
price  she  had  to  pay  for  another's  carelessness — 
a  broken  wrist  which,  in  civilization,  is  perhaps, 
one  of  the  lesser  tragedies;  but  this  was  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  Guiana  wilderness.  Many 
hours  from  ether  and  surgical  skill,  such  an  acci- 
dent assumes  alarming  proportions.  Therefore, 
I  repeat  my  warning:  tie  your  knots  or  examine 
them. 

It  is  true,  that,  when  all  is  said  and  done^  a 
dweller  in  hammocks  may  bring  upon  himself  any 
number  of  diverse  dangers  of  a  character  never 
described  in  books  or  imagined  in  fiction.    A  fel- 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  205 

low  naturalist  of  iiine  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  set  innumerable  traps  for  the  lesser  jungle- 
folk,  such  as  mice  and  opossums,  all  of  which 
he  religiously  measured  and  skinned,  so  that  each, 
in  its  death,  should  add  its  mite  to  human  knowl- 
edge. As  a  fisherman  runs  out  set  lines,  so  wouhl 
he  place  his  traps  in  a  circle  under  his  hammock, 
using  a  cord  to  tie  each  and  every  one  to  the 
meshes.  This  done,  it  was  his  custom  to  lie  at 
ease  and  wait  for  the  chck  below  which  would 
usher  in  a  new  specimen, — perhaps  a  new  spe- 
cies,— to  be  lifted  up,  removed,  and  safely  cached 
until  morning.  This  strategic  method  served  a 
double  purpose:  it  conserved  natural  energy,  and 
it  protected  the  catch.  For  if  the  traps  were 
set  in  the  jungle  and  trustfully  confided  to  its 
care  until  the  break  of  day,  the  ants  would  leave 
a  beautifully  cleaned  skeleton,  intact,  all  unnec- 
essarily entrapped. 

Now  it  happened  that  once,  when  he  had  set 
his  nocturnal  traps,  he  straightway  went  to  sleep 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  small  jungle  people  who 
were  calling  for  mates  and  new  life,  so  that  he 
did  not  hear  the  click  which  was  to  warn  him 
that  another  little  beast  of  fur  had  come  un- 
awares upon  his  death.    But  he  heard,  suddenly, 


206  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

a  disturbance  in  the  low  ferns  beneath  his  ham- 
mock. He  reached  over  and  caught  hold  of  one 
of  the  cords,  finding  the  attendant  trap  hea\y 
with  prey.  He  was  on  the  point  of  feeling  his 
way  to  the  trap  itself,  when  instead,  by  some 
subconscious  prompting,  he  reached  over  and 
snapped  on  his  flashlight.  And  there  before  him, 
hanging  in  mid-air,  striking  viciously  at  his  fin- 
gers which  were  just  beyond  its  reach,  w^as  a 
young  fer-de-lance — one  of  the  deadliest  of  trop- 
ical serpents.  His  nerves  gave  way,  and  with 
a  crash  the  trap  fell  to  the  ground  where  he 
could  hear  it  stirring  and  thrashing  about  among 
the  dead  leaves.  This  ominous  rustling  did  not 
encourage  sleep;  he  lay  there  for  a  long  time 
listening, — and  every  minute  is  longer  in  the 
darkness, — while  his  hammock  quivered  and 
trembled  with  the  reaction. 

Guided  by  this,  I  might  enter  into  a  new  field 
of  naturalizing  and  say  to  those  who  might,  in 
excitement,  be  tempted  to  do  otherwise,  "Look 
at  your  traps  before  lifting  them/'  But  my 
audience  would  be  too  limited;  I  will  refrain 
from  so  doing. 

It  is  true  that  this  brief  experience  might  be 
looked  upon  as  one  illustration  of  the  perils  of 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  207 

the  wilderness,  since  it  is  not  customary  for  the 
fer~de-lance  to  frequent  the  city  and  the  town. 
But  this  would  give  rise  to  a  footless  argument, 
leading  nowhere.  For  danger  is  everywhere — it 
lurks  in  every  shadow  and  is  hidden  in  the  hright 
sunlight,  it  is  the  uninvited  guest,  the  invisihle 
pedestrian  who  walks  heside  you  in  the  crowded 
street  ceaselessly,  without  tiring.  But  even  a 
fer-de-lance  should  rather  add  to  the  numher  of 
hammock  devotees  than  diminish  them;  for  the 
three  feet  or  more  of  elevation  is  as  good  as  so 
many  miles  betw^een  the  tw^o  of  you.  And  three 
miles  from  any  serpent  is  sufficient. 

It  may  be  that  the  very  w^ord  danger  is  sub- 
jected to  a  different  interpretation  in  each  one  of 
our  mental  dictionaries.  It  is  elastic,  compre- 
hensive. To  some  it  may  include  whatever  is 
terrible,  terrifying;  to  others  it  may  symbolize 
a  worthy  antagonist,  one  who  throws  down  the 
gauntlet  and  asks  no  questions,  but  who  will  make 
a  good  and  fair  fight  wherem  advantage  is 
neither  taken  nor  given.  I  suppose,  to  be  bit- 
ten by  vampires  w^ould  be  thought  a  danger  by 
many  who  have  not  graduated  from  the  mattress 
of  civilization  to  this  cubiculum  of  the  wilderness. 
This  is  due,  in  part,  to  an  ignorance,  which  is 


208  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  be  condoned;  and  this  ignorance,  in  turn,  is 
due  to  that  lack  of  desire  for  a  knowledge  of 
new  countries  and  new  experiences,  which  lack 
is  to  be  deplored  and  openly  mourned.  Many 
years  ago,  in  Mexico,  when  I  first  entered  the 
vampire  zone,  I  was  apprised  of  the  fact  by  the 
clotted  blood  on  my  horse's  neck  in  the  early 
morning.  In  actually  seeing  this  evidence,  I  ex- 
perienced the  diverse  emotions  of  the  discoverer, 
although  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  had  discovered 
nothing  more  than  the  verification  of  a  scientific 
commonplace.  It  so  happened  that  I  had  read, 
at  one  time,  many  conflicting  statements  of  the 
workings  of  this  aerial  leech;  therefore,  finding 
myself  in  his  native  habitat,  I  went  to  all  sorts 
of  trouble  to  become  a  victim  to  his  sorceries. 
The  great  toe  is  the  favorite  and  stereotyped 
point  of  attack,  we  are  told;  so,  in  my  ham- 
mock, my  great  toes  were  conscientiously  ex- 
posed night  after  night,  but  not  until  a  decade 
later  was  my  curiosity  satisfied. 

I  presume  that  this  was  a  matter  of  ill  luck, 
rather  than  a  personal  matter  between  the  vam- 
pire and  me.  Therefore,  as  a  direct  result  of 
this  and  like  experiences,  I  have  learned  to  make 
proper  allowances  for  the  whims  of  the  Fates. 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  209 

I  have  learned  that  it  is  their  pleasure  to  dehige 
me  with  rainstorms  at  unpropitious  moments, 
also  to  send  me,  with  my  hammock,  to  eminently 
desirable  countries,  which,  however,  are  barren 
of  trees  and  scourged  of  every  respectable  shrub. 
That  the  showers  may  not  find  me  unprepared, 
I  pack  with  my  hamaca  an  extra  length  of  rope, 
to  be  stretched  taut  from  foot-post  to  head-post, 
that  a  tarpaulin  or  canvas  may  be  slung  over  it. 
When  a  treeless  country  is  presented  to  me  in 
prospect,  I  have  two  stout  stakes  prepared,  and 
I  do  not  move  forward  without  them. 

It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  see  an  experienced 
hammocker  take  his  stakes,  first  one,  then  the 
other,  and  plunge  them  into  the  ground  three  or 
four  times,  measuring  at  one  glance  the  exact 
distance  and  angle,  and  securing  magically  that 
mysterious  "give"  so  essential  to  well-being  and 
comfort.  Any  one  can  sink  them  like  fence- 
posts,  so  that  they  stand  deep  and  rigid,  a  re- 
proach and  an  accusation ;  but  it  requires  a  par- 
ticular skill  to  judge  by  the  pull  whether  or  not 
they  will  hold  through  the  night  and  at  the  same 
time  yield  with  gentle  and  supple  swing  to  the 
least  movement  of  the  sleeper.  A  Carib  knows, 
instantly,  worthy  and  unworthy  ground.    I  have 


210  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

seen  an  Indian  sink  his  hamaca  posts  into  sand 
with  one  swift,  concentrated  motion,  mathemati- 
cal in  its  precision  and  surety,  so  that  he  might 
enter  at  once  into  a  peaceful  night  of  tranquil 
and  unbroken  slumber,  while  I,  a  tenderfoot  then, 
must  needs  beat  my  stakes  down  into  the  ground 
with  tremendous  energy,  only  to  come  to  earth 
with  a  resounding  thwack  the  moment  I  mounted 
mv  couch. 

The  Red  Man  made  his  comment,  smiling: 
"Yellow  earth,  much  squeeze."  Which,  being 
translated,  informed  me  that  the  clayey  ground 
I  had  chosen,  hard  though  it  seemed,  was  more 
like  putty  in  that  it  would  slip  and  slip  with  the 
prolonged  pressure  until  the  post  fell  inward  and 
catastrophe  crowned  my  endeavor. 

So  it  follows  that  the  hammock,  in  company 
with  an  adequate  tarpaulin  and  two  trustworthy 
stakes,  will  survive  the  heaviest  downpour  as  well 
as  the  most  arid  and  uncompromising  desert. 
But  since  it  is  man-made,  with  finite  limitations, 
nature  is  not  without  means  to  defeat  its  purpose. 
The  hammock  cannot  cope  with  the  cold — real 
cold,  that  is,  not  the  sudden  chill  of  tropical  night 
which  a  blanket  resists,  but  the  cold  of  the  north 
or  of  high  altitudes.     This  is  the  realm  of  the 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  211 

sleeping-bag,  the  joy  of  which  is  another  story. 
More  than  once  I  have  had  to  use  a  hammock  at 
high  levels,  since  there  was  nothing  else  at  hand ; 
and  the  numbness  of  the  Arctic  was  mine. 
Every  mesh  seemed  to  invite  a  separate  draught. 
The  winds  of  heaven — all  four — played  unceas- 
ingly upon  me,  and  I  became  in  due  time  a  sway- 
ing mummy  of  ice.  It  was  my  delusion  that  I 
was  a  dead  Indian  cached  aloft  upon  my  arbo- 
real bier — which  is  not  a  normal  state  of  mind 
for  the  sleeping  explorer. 

Anything  rather  than  this  helpless  surrender 
to  the  elements.  Better  the  lowlands  and  that 
fantastic  shroud,  the  mosquitaro.  For  even  to 
wind  one's  self  into  this  is  an  experience  of  note. 
It  is  ingenious,  and  called  the  mosquito  shirt  be- 
cause of  its  general  shape,  which  is  as  much  like 
a  shirt  as  anything  else.  A  large  round  center 
covers  the  hammock,  and  two  sleeves  extend  up 
the  supporting  strands  and  inclose  the  ends,  be- 
ing tied  to  the  ring-ropes.  If  at  sundown  swarms 
of  mosquitoes  become  unbearable,  one  retires  into 
his  netting  funnel,  and  there  disrobes.  Clothes 
are  rolled  into  a  bundle  and  tied  to  the  hammock, 
that  one  may  close  one's  eyes  reasonably  confi- 
dent that  the  supply  will  not  be  diminished  by 


212  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

some  small  marauder.  It  is  then  that  a  miracle 
is  enacted.  For  one  is  at  last  enabled,  under 
these  propitious  circumstances,  to  achieve  the 
impossible,  to  control  and  manipulate  the  void 
and  the  invisible,  to  obey  that  unforgotten  advice 
of  one's  youth,  "Oh,  g'wan — crawl  into  a  hole 
and  pull  the  hole  in  after  you!"  At  an  early  age, 
this  unnatural  advice  held  my  mind,  so  that  I 
devised  innumerable  means  of  verifying  it;  I 
was  filled  with  a  despair  and  longing  whenever  I 
met  it  anew.  But  it  was  an  ambition  appeased 
only  in  maturity.  And  this  is  the  miracle  of  the 
tropics:  climb  up  into  the  hamaca,  and,  at  this 
altitude,  draw  in  the  hole  of  the  mosquitaro  fun- 
nel, making  it  fast  with  a  single  knot.  It  is  done. 
One  is  at  rest,  and  lying  back,  listens  to  the  hum- 
ming of  all  the  mosquitos  in  the  world,  to  be 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  sad,  minor  singing  of  their 
myriad  wings.  But  though  I  have  slung  my 
hammock  in  many  lands,  on  all  the  continents, 
I  have  few  memories  of  netting  nights.  Usually, 
both  in  tropics  and  in  tempered  climes,  one  may 
boldly  lie  with  face  uncovered  to  the  night. 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  greatest  joy  of  ham- 
mock life,  admission  to  the  secrets  of  the  wilder- 
ness, initiation  to  new  intimacies  and  subtleties 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  213 

of  this  kingdom,  at  once  welcomed  and  delicately 
ignored  as  any  honored  guest  should  be.  For 
this  one  must  make  unwonted  demands  upon 
one's  nocturnal  senses.  From  habit,  perhaps,  it 
is  natural  to  lie  with  the  eyes  wide  open,  but  with 
all  the  faculties  concentrated  on  the  two  senses 
which  bring  impressions  from  the  world  of  dark- 
ness— hearing  and  smell.  In  a  jungle  hut  a  loud 
cry  from  out  of  the  black  treetops  now  and  then 
reaches  the  ear;  in  a  tent  the  faint  noises  of  the 
night  outside  are  borne  on  the  wind,  and  at  times 
the  silhouette  of  a  passing  animal  moves  slowly 
across  the  heavy  cloth ;  but  in  a  hamaca  one  is  not 
thus  set  apart  to  be  baffled  by  hidden  mysteries 
• — one  is  given  the  very  point  of  view  of  the  crea- 
tures who  live  and  die  in  the  open. 

Through  the  meshes  which  press  gently  against 
one's  face  comes  every  sound  which  our  human 
ears  can  distinguish  and  set  apart  from  the  si- 
lence— a  silence  which  in  itself  is  onlj^  a  mirage 
of  apparent  soundlessness,  a  testimonial  to  the 
imperfection  of  our  senses.  The  moaning  and 
whining  of  some  distant  beast  of  prey  is  brought 
on  the  breeze  to  mingle  with  the  silken  swishing 
of  the  palm  fronds  overhead  and  the  insistent 
chirping  of  many  insects — a  chirping  so  fine  and 


214  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

shrill  that  it  verges  upon  the  very  limits  of  our 
hearing.  And  these,  combined,  unified,  are  no 
more  than  the  ground  surge  beneath  the  countless 
waves  of  sound.  For  the  voice  of  the  jungle  is 
the  voice  of  love,  of  hatred,  of  hope,  of  despair — 
and  in  the  night-time,  when  the  dominance  of 
sense-activity  shifts  from  eye  to  ear,  from  retina 
to  nostril,  it  cries  aloud  its  confidences  to  all  the 
world.  But  the  human  mind  is  not  equal  to  a 
true  understanding  of  these;  for  in  a  tropical 
jungle  the  birds  and  the  frogs,  the  beasts  and  the 
insects  are  sending  out  their  messages  so  swiftly 
one  upon  the  other,  that  the  senses  fail  of  their 
mission  and  only  chaos  and  a  great  confusion  are 
carried  to  the  brain.  The  whirring  of  invisible 
wings  and  the  movement  of  the  wind  in  the  low 
branches  become  one  and  the  same:  it  is  an  epic, 
told  in  some  strange  tongue,  an  epic  filled  to 
overflowing  with  tragedy,  with  poetry  and  mys- 
tery. The  cloth  of  this  drama  is  woven  from 
many-colored  threads,  for  Xature  is  lavish  with 
her  pigment,  reckless  with  life  and  death.  She 
is  generous  because  there  is  no  need  for  her  to  be 
miserly.  And  in  the  darkness,  I  have  heard  the 
working  of  her  will,  translating  as  best  I  could. 
In  the  darkness,  I  have  at  times  heard  the 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  215 

tramping  of  many  feet ;  in  a  land  traversed  only 
by  Indian  trails  I  have  listened  to  an  overloaded 
freight  train  toiling  up  a  steep  grade;  I  have 
heard  the  noise  of  distant  battle  and  the  cries  of 
the  victor  and  the  vanquished.  Hard  by,  among 
the  trees,  I  have  heard  a  woman  seized,  have 
heard  her  crying,  pleading  for  mercy,  have  heard 
her  choking  and  sobbing  till  the  end  came  in  a 
terrible,  gasping  sigh;  and  then,  in  the  sudden 
silence,  there  was  a  movement  and  thrashing 
about  in  the  topmost  branches,  and  the  flutter 
and  whirr  of  great  wings  moving  swiftly  away 
from  me  into  the  heart  of  the  jungle — the  only 
clue  to  the  author  of  this  vocal  tragedy.  Once, 
a  Pan  of  the  woods  tuned  up  his  pipes — striking 
a  false  note  now  and  then,  as  if  it  were  his  whim 
to  appear  no  more  than  the  veriest  amateur ;  then 
suddenly,  with  the  full  liquid  sweetness  of  his 
reeds,  bursting  into  a  strain  so  wonderful,  so 
silvery  clear,  that  I  lay  with  mouth  open  to  still 
the  beating  of  blood  in  my  ears,  hardly  breathing, 
that  I  might  catch  every  vibration  of  his  song. 
When  the  last  note  died  away,  there  was  utter 
stillness  about  me  for  an  instant — nothing 
stirred,  nothing  moved;  the  wind  seemed  to  have 
forsaken  the  leaves.    From  a  great  distance,  as 


216  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

if  he  were  going  deeper  into  the  woods,  I  heard 
him  once  more  tuning  up  his  pipes;  but  he  did 
not  play  again. 

Beside  me,  I  heard  the  low  voice  of  one  of  my 
natives  murmuring,  ''Muerte  ha  pasado,"  My 
mind  took  up  this  phrase,  repeating  it,  giving  it 
the  rhythm  of  Pan's  song — a  rhythm  delicate, 
sustained,  full  of  color  and  meaning  in  itself. 
I  was  ashamed  that  one  of  my  kind  could  trans- 
late such  sweet  and  poignant  music  into  a  super- 
stition, could  believe  that  it  was  the  song  of 
death, — the  death  that  passes, — and  not  the  voice 
of  life.  But  it  may  have  been  that  he  was  wiser 
in  such  matters  than  I;  superstitions  are  many 
times  no  more  than  truth  in  masquerade.  For 
I  could  call  it  by  no  name — whether  bird  or  beast, 
creature  of  fur  or  feather  or  scale.  And  not 
for  one,  but  for  a  thousand  creatures  within  my 
hearing,  any  obscure  nocturnal  sound  may  have 
heralded  the  end  of  life.  Song  and  death  may 
go  hand  in  hand,  and  such  a  song  may  be  a  beau- 
tiful one,  unsung,  unuttered  until  this  moment 
when  Nature  demands  the  final  payment  for 
what  she  has  given  so  lavishly.  In  the  open,  the 
dominant  note  is  the  call  to  a  mate,  and  with  it, 
that  there  may  be  color  and  form  and  contrast. 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  217 

there  is  that  note  of  pure  vocal  exuberance  which 
is  beauty  for  beauty  and  for  nothing  else ;  but  in 
this  harmony  there  is  sometimes  the  cry  of  a 
creature  who  has  come  upon  death  unawares,  a 
creature  who  has  perhaps  been  dumb  all  the  days 
of  his  life,  only  to  cry  aloud  this  once  for  pity, 
for  mercy,  or  for  faith,  in  this  hour  of  his  ex- 
tremity. Of  all,  the  most  terrible  is  the  death- 
scream  of  a  horse, — a  cry  of  frightful  timbre, — 
treasured,  according  to  some  secret  law,  until 
this  dire  instant  when  for  him  death  indeed 
passes. 

It  was  years  ago  that  I  heard  the  pipes  of  Pan; 
"but  one  does  not  forget  these  mysteries  of  the 
jungle  night:  the  sounds  and  scents  and  the  dim, 
glimpsed  ghosts  which  flit  through  the  darkness 
and  the  deepest  shadow  mark  a  place  for  them- 
selves in  one's  memory,  which  is  not  erased.  I 
have  lain  in  my  hammock  looking  at  a  tapestry  of 
green  draped  over  a  half-fallen  tree,  and  then 
for  a  few  minutes  have  turned  to  watch  the  bats 
flicker  across  a  bit  of  sky  visible  through  the  dark 
branches.  When  I  looked  back  again  at  the  tap- 
estry, although  the  dusk  had  only  a  moment  be- 
fore settled  into  the  deeper  blue  of  twilight,  a 
score  of  great  lustrous  stars  were  shining  there. 


218  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

making  new  patterns  in  the  green  drapery;  for 
in  this  short  time,  the  spectral  blooms  of  the  night 
had  awakened  and  flooded  my  resting-place  with 
their  fragrance. 

And  these  were  but  the  first  of  the  flowers; 
for  when  the  brief  tropic  twilight  is  quenched, 
a  new  world  is  born.  The  leaves  and  blossoms  of 
the  day  are  at  rest,  and  the  birds  and  insects 
sleep.  New  blooms  open,  strange  scents  pour 
forth.  Even  our  dull  senses  respond  to  these; 
for  just  as  the  eye  is  dimmed,  so  are  the  other 
senses  quickened  in  the  sudden  night  of  the  jun- 
gle. Nearby,  so  close  that  one  can  reach  out  and 
touch  them,  the  pale  Cereus  moons  expand,  ex- 
haling their  sweetness,  subtle  breaths  of  fra- 
grance calling  for  the  very  life  of  their  race  to  the 
whirring  hawkmoths.  The  tiny  miller  who, 
through  the  hours  of  glare  has  crouched  beneath 
a  leaf,  flutters  upward,  and  the  trail  of  her  per- 
fume summons  her  mate  perhaps  half  a  mile 
down  wind.  The  civet  cat,  stimulated  by  love  or 
war,  fills  the  glade  with  an  odor  so  pungent  that 
it  seems  as  if  the  other  senses  must  mark  it. 

Although  there  may  seem  not  a  ])reath  of  air 
in  motion,  yet  the  tide  of  scent  is  never  still. 
One's  moistened  finger  maj^  reveal  no  cool  side, 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  219 

since  there  is  not  the  vestige  of  a  breeze;  but 
faint  odors  arrive,  become  stronger,  and  die 
away,  or  are  wholly  dissipated  by  an  onrush  of 
others,  so  musky  or  so  sweet  that  one  can  almost 
taste  them.  These  have  their  secret  purposes, 
since  Nature  is  not  wasteful.  If  she  creates 
beautiful  things,  it  is  to  serve  some  ultimate  end ; 
it  is  her  whim  to  walk  in  obscure  paths,  but  her 
goal  is  fixed  and  immutable.  However,  her  de- 
signs are  hidden  and  not  easy  to  decipher;  at 
best,  one  achieves,  not  knowledge,  but  a  few  iso- 
lated facts. 

Sport  in  a  hammock  might,  by  the  casual 
thinker,  be  considered  as  limited  to  dreams  of  the 
hunt  and  chase.  Yet  I  have  found  at  my  dis- 
posal a  score  of  amusements.  When  the  dusk 
has  just  settled  down,  and  the  little  bats  fill  every 
glade  in  the  forest,  a  box  of  beetles  or  grasshop- 
pers— or  even  bits  of  chopped  meat — offers  the 
possibility  of  a  new  and  neglected  sport,  in  effect 
the  inversion  of  baiting  a  school  of  fish.  Toss  a 
grasshopper  into  the  air  and  he  has  only  time  to 
spread  his  wings  for  a  parachute  to  earth,  when 
a  bat  swoops  past  so  quickly  that  the  eyes  refuse 
to  see  any  single  effort — but  the  grasshopper  has 
vanished.    As  for  the  piece  of  meat,  it  is  drawn 


220  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

like  a  magnet  to  the  fierce  little  face.  Once  I 
tried  the  experiment  of  a  bit  of  blunted  bent  wire 
on  a  long  piece  of  thread,  and  at  the  very  first 
cast  I  entangled  a  flutter-mouse  and  pulled  him 
in.  I  was  aghast  when  I  saw  what  I  had  cap- 
tured. A  body  hardly  as  large  as  that  of  a  mouse 
was  topped  with  the  head  of  a  fiend  incarnate. 
Between  his  red  puffed  lips  his  teeth  showed 
needle-sharp  and  ivory-white;  his  eyes  were  as 
evil  as  a  caricature  from  Simplicissimus,  and  set 
deep  in  his  head,  while  his  ears  and  nose  were 
monstrous  with  fold  upon  fold  of  skinny  flaps. 
It  was  not  a  living  face,  but  a  mask  of  frightful 
mobilitv. 

« 

I  set  him  free,  deeming  anything  so  ugly  well 
w^orthy  of  life,  if  such  could  find  sustenance 
among  his  fellows  and  win  a  mate  for  himself 
somewhere  in  this  world.  But  he,  for  all  his 
hideousness  and  unseemly  mien,  is  not  the  vam- 
pire; the  blood-sucking  bat  has  won  a  mantle  of 
deceit  from  the  hands  of  Nature — a  garb  that 
gives  him  a  modest  and  not  unpleasing  appear- 
ance, and  makes  it  a  difficult  matter  to  distin- 
guish him  from  his  guileless  confreres  of  our 
summer  evenings. 

But  in  the  tropics, — the  native  land  of  the 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  221 

hammock, — not  only  the  mysteries  of  the  night, 
but  the  affairs  of  the  day  may  be  legitimately  in- 
vestigated from  this  aerial  point  of  view.  It  is 
a  fetish  of  belief  in  hot  countries  that  every  un- 
acclimatized  white  man  must,  sooner  or  later, 
succumb  to  that  sacred  custom,  the  siesta.  In 
the  cool  of  the  day  he  may  work  vigorously,  but 
this  hour  of  rest  is  indispensable.  To  a  health- 
ful person,  living  a  reasonable  life,  the  siesta  is 
sheer  luxury.  However,  in  camp,  when  the  sun 
nears  the  zenith  and  the  hush  which  settles  over 
the  jungle  proclaims  that  most  of  the  wild  crea- 
tures are  resting,  one  may  swing  one's  hammock 
in  the  very  heart  of  this  primitive  forest  and 
straightway  be  admitted  into  a  new  province, 
where  rare  and  unsuspected  experiences  are 
open  to  the  wayfarer.  This  is  not  the  province 
of  sleep  or  dreams,  where  all  things  are  possible 
and  preeminently  reasonable;  for  one  does  not 
go  through  sundry  hardships  and  all  manner  of 
self-denial,  only  to  be  blindfolded  on  tlie  very 
threshold  of  his  ambition.  No  naturalist  of  a 
temperamicnt  which  begrudges  every  unused 
hour  will,  for  a  moment,  think  of  sleep  under 
such  conditions.  It  is  not  true  that  the  rest  and 
quiet  are  necessary  to  cool  the  Northern  blood 


222  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

for  active  work  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  eye  and 
the  brain  can  combine  relaxation  with  keenest  at- 
tention. 

In  the  northlands  the  difference  in  the  tem- 
perature of  the  early  dawn  and  high  noon  is  so 
slight  that  the  effect  on  birds  and  other  crea- 
tures, as  well  as  plants  of  all  kinds,  is  not  pro- 
found.   But  in  the  tropics  a  change  takes  place 
which  is  as  pronounced  as  that  brought  about  by 
day  and  night.    Above  all,  the  volume  of  sound 
becomes  no  more  than  a  pianissimo  melody;  for 
the  chorus  of  birds  and  insects  dies  awav  little 
by  little  with  the  increase  of  heat.      There  is 
something    geometrical    about    this,    something 
precise  and  line  in  this  working  of  a  natural  law 
— a  law  from  which  no  living  being  is  immune, 
for  at  length  one  unconsciously  lies  motionless, 
overcome  by  the  warmth  and  this  illusion  of  si- 
lence. 

The  swaving  of  the  hammock  sets  in  motion 
a  cool  breeze,  and  lying  at  full  length,  one  is  ad- 
mitted at  high  noon  to  a  new  domain  wliich  has 
no  other  portal  but  this.  At  this  hour,  the 
jungle  shows  few  evidences  of  life,  not  a  chirp 
of  bird  or  song  of  insect,  and  no  rustling  of 
leaves  in  the  heat  which  has  descended  so  surely 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  223 

and  so  inevitably.  But  from  hidden  places  and 
cool  shadows  come  broken  sounds  and  whisper- 
ings, which  cover  the  gamut  from  insects  to 
mammals  and  unite  to  make  a  drowsy  and  con- 
tented murmuring — a  musical  undertone  of 
amity  and  goodw^ill.  For  pursuit  and  killing 
are  at  the  lowest  ebb,  the  stifling  heat  being  the 
flag  of  truce  in  the  world-wide  struggle  for  life 
and  food  and  mate — a  struggle  which  halts  for 
naught  else,  day  or  night. 

Lying  quietly,  the  confidence  of  every  uncon- 
ventional and  adventurous  wanderer  will  in- 
clude your  couch,  since  courage  is  a  natural  vir- 
tue when  the  spirit  of  friendliness  is  abroad  in 
the  land.  I  felt  that  I  had  acquired  merit  that 
eventful  day  when  a  pair  of  hummingbirds — 
thimblefuls  of  fluff  with  flaming  breastplates  and 
caps  of  gold — looked  upon  me  with  such  favor 
that  they  made  the  strands  of  my  hamaca  their 
boudoir.  I  was  not  conscious  of  their  designs 
upon  me  until  I  saw  them  whirring  toward  me, 
two  bright,  swiftly  moving  atoms,  glowing  like 
tiny  meteors,  humming  like  a  very  battalion  of 
bees.  They  betook  themselves  to  two  chosen 
cords  and,  close  together,  settled  themselves  with 
no  further  demands  upon  existence.   A  hundred 


224  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

of  them  could  have  rested  upon  the  pair  of 
strands;  even  the  dragon-flies  which  dashed  past 
had  a  wider  spread  of  wing;  but  for  these  two 
there  were  a  myriad  glistening  featherlets  to  be 
oiled  and  arranged,  two  pairs  of  slender  wings 
to  be  whipped  clean  of  every  speck  of  dust,  two 
delicate,  sharp  bills  to  be  wiped  again  and  again 
and  cleared  of  microscopic  drops  of  nectar. 
Then — like  the  great  eagles  roosting  high  over- 
head in  the  clefts  of  the  mountainside — these 
mites  of  birds  must  needs  tuck  their  heads  be- 
neath their  wings  for  sleep ;  thus  we  three  rested 
in  the  violent  heat. 

On  other  days,  in  Borneo,  weaver  birds  have 
brought  dried  grasses  and  woven  them  into  the 
fabric  of  my  hammock,  making  me  indeed  feel 
that  my  couch  was  a  part  of  the  wilderness.  At 
times,  some  of  the  larger  birds  have  crept  close 
to  my  glade,  to  sleep  in  the  shadows  of  the  low 
jungle-growth.  But  these  were,  one  and  all^ 
timid  folk,  politely  incurious,  with  evident  re- 
spect for  the  rights  of  the  individual.  But  once, 
some  others  of  a  ruder  and  more  barbaric  tem- 
perament advanced  upon  me  unawares,  and 
found  me  unprepared  for  their  coming.  I  was 
dozing  quietly,  glad  to  escape  for  an  instant  the 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  225 

insistent  screaming  of  a  cicada  which  seemed  to 
have  gone  mad  in  the  heat,  when  a  low  rusthng 
caught  my  ear — a  sound  of  moving  leaves  with- 
out wind;  the  voice  of  a  breeze  in  the  midst  of 
breathless  heat.  There  was  in  it  something  sin- 
ister and  foreboding.  I  leaned  over  the  edge  of 
my  hammock,  and  saw  coming  toward  me,  in  a 
broad,  irregular  front,  a  great  army  of  ants, 
battalion  after  battalion  of  them  flowinfj  like 
a  sea  of  living  motes  over  twigs  and  leaves  and 
stems.  I  knew  the  danger  and  I  half  sat  up, 
prepared  to  roll  out  and  walk  to  one  side.  Then 
I  gaged  my  supporting  strands ;  tested  them  un- 
til they  vibrated  and  hummed,  and  lay  back, 
watching,  to  see  what  would  come  about.  I 
knew  that  no  creature  in  the  world  could  stay 
in  the  path  of  this  horde  and  live.  To  kill  an 
insect  or  a  great  bird  would  require  only  a  few 
minutes,  and  the  death  of  a  jaguar  or  a  tapir 
would  mean  only  a  few  more.  Against  this  at- 
tack, claws,  teeth,  poison-fangs  would  be  idle 
weapons. 

In  the  van  fled  a  cloud  of  terrified  insects — • 
those  gifted  with  flight  to  wing  their  w^ay  far  off, 
while  the  humbler  ones  went  running  headlong, 
their  legs,  four,  six,  or  a  hundred,  making  the 


226  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

swiftest  pace  vouchsafed  them.  There  were  fool- 
ish folk  who  chmbed  up  low  ferns,  achieving  the 
swaying,  topmost  fronds  only  to  be  trailed  by 
the  savage  ants  and  brought  down  to  instant 
death. 

Even  the  winged  ones  were  not  immune,  for 
if  they  hesitated  a  second,  an  ant  would  seize 
upon  them,  and,  although  carried  into  the  air, 
would  not  loosen  his  grip,  but  cling  to  them,  ob- 
struct their  flight,  and  perhaps  bring  them  to 
earth  in  the  heart  of  the  jungle,  where,  cut  off 
from  their  kind,  the  single  combat  would  be 
waged  to  the  death.  From  where  I  watched, 
I  saw  massacres  innumerable;  terrible  battles  in 
which  some  creature — a  giant  beside  an  ant — 
fought  for  his  life,  crushing  to  death  scores  of 
the  enemy  before  giving  up. 

They  were  a  merciless  army  and  their  num- 
ber was  countless,  v/ith  host  upon  host  follow- 
ing close  on  each  other's  heels.  A  horde  of  war- 
riors found  a  bird  in  my  game-bag,  and  left  of 
it  hardly  a  feather.  I  wondered  whether  they 
would  discover  me,  and  they  did,  though  I  think 
it  was  more  by  accident  than  by  intention. 
Nevertheless  a  half-dozen  ants  appeared  on  the 
foot-strands,  nervously  twiddling  their  antenna 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  227 

in  my  direction.  Their  appraisal  was  brief; 
•with  no  more  than  a  second's  delay  they  started 
toward  me.  I  waited  until  they  were  well  on 
their  w^ay,  then  vigorously  twanged  the  cords 
under  them  harp  wise,  sending  all  the  scouts  into 
mid-air  and  headlong  down  among  their  fellows. 
So  far  as  I  know,  this  was  a  revolutionary  ma- 
neuver in  military  tactics,  comparable  only  to  the 
explosion  of  a  set  mine.  But  even  so,  when  the 
last  of  this  brigade  had  gone  on  their  menacing, 
pitiless  way,  and  the  danger  had  passed  to  a  new 
province,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  certain, 
inexorable  fate  of  a  man  who,  unable  to  move 
from  his  hammock  or  to  make  any  defense,  should 
be  thus  exposed  to  their  attack.  There  could 
be  no  help  for  him  if  but  one  of  this  great  host 
should  scent  him  out  and  carry  the  w^ord  back 
to  the  rank  and  file. 

It  was  after  this  army  had  been  lost  in  the 
black  shadows  of  the  forest  floor,  that  I  remem- 
bered those  others  who  had  come  with  them — 
those  attendant  birds  of  prey  who  profit  by  the 
evil  work  of  this  legion.  For,  hovering  over 
them,  sometimes  a  little  in  advance,  there  had 
been  a  flying  squadron  of  ant-birds  and  others 
which  had  come  to  feed,  not  on  the  ants,  but  on 


228  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

the  insects  which  had  been  frightened  into  flight. 
At  one  time,  three  of  these  dropped  down  to 
perch  on  my  hammock,  nervous,  watchful,  and 
alert,  waiting  but  a  moment  before  darting  after 
some  ill-fated  moth  or  grasshopper  which,  in  its 
great  panic,  had  escaped  one  danger  only  to  fall 
an  easy  victim  to  another.  For  a  little  while,  the 
twittering  and  chirping  of  these  camp-follow- 
ers, these  feathered  profiteers,  was  brought  back 
to  me  on  the  wind;  and  when  it  had  died  away, 
I  took  up  my  work  again  in  a  glade  in  which 
no  voice  of  insect  reached  my  ears.  The  hunt- 
ing ants  had  done  their  work  thoroughly. 

And  so  it  comes  about  that  by  day  or  by  night 
the  hammock  carries  with  it  its  own  reward  to 
those  who  have  learned  but  one  thing — that  there 
is  a  chasm  between  pancakes  and  truffles.  It  is 
an  open  door  to  a  new  land  which  does  not  fail 
of  its  promise,  a  land  in  which  the  prosaic,  the 
ordinary,  the  everyday  have  no  place,  since 
they  have  been  shouldered  out,  dethroned,  by  a 
new  and  competent  perspective.  The  god  of 
hammocks  is  unfailingly  kind,  just,  and  gener- 
ous to  those  who  have  found  pancakes  wanting 
and  have  discovered  by  inspiration,  or  what-not, 
that  truffles  do  not  grow  in  back-yards  to  be 


HAMMOCK  NIGHTS  229 

served  at  early  breakfast  by  the  maid-of-all- 
work.  Which  proves,  I  beheve,  that  a  mere  bed 
may  be  a  block  in  the  path  of  philosophy,  a  com- 
monplace, and  that  truffles  and  hammocks — 
hammocks  unquestionably — are  twin  doors  to 
the  land  of  romance. 

The  swayer  in  hammocks  may  find  amuse- 
ment and  may  enrich  science  by  his  record  of 
observations;  his  memory  will  be  more  vivid, 
his  caste  the  worthier,  for  the  intimacy  with  wild 
things  achieved  when  swinging  between  earth 
and  sky,  unfettered  by  mattress  or  roof. 


A  TKOPIC  GAKDEX 

Take  an  automobile  and  into  it  pile  a  super- 
man, a  great  evolutionist,  an  artist,  an  ornitholo- 
gist, a  poet,  a  botanist,  a  photographer,  a  musi- 
cian, an  author,  adorable  youngsters  of  fifteen, 
and  a  tired  business  man,  and  within  half  an  hour 
I  shall  have  drawn  from  them  superlatives  of  ap- 
preciation, each  after  his  own  method  of  emo- 
tional expression — whether  a  flood  of  exclama- 
tions, or  silence.  This  is  no  light  boast,  for  at 
one  time  or  another,  I  have  done  all  this,  but  in 
only  one  place — the  Botanical  Gardens  of 
Georgetown,  British  Guiana.  As  I  hold  it  sacri- 
lege to  think  of  dying  v/ithout  again  seeing  the 
Taj  Mahal,  or  the  Hills  from  Darjeeling,  so 
something  of  ethics  seems  involved  in  my  soul's 
necessity  of  again  watching  the  homing  of  the 
herons  in  these  tropic  gardens  at  evening. 

In  the  busy,  unlovely  streets  of  the  water- 
front of  Georgetown,  one  is  often  jostled;  in 

230 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  231 

the  markets,  it  is  often  difficult  at  times  to  make 
one's  way;  but  in  the  gardens  a  solitary  laborer 
grubs  among  the  roots,  a  coolie  woman  swings 
by  with  a  bundle  of  grass  on  her  head,  or,  in  the 
late  afternoon,  an  occasional  motor  whirrs  past. 
Mankind  seems  almost  an  interloper,  rather  than 
architect  and  owner  of  these  wonder-gardens. 
His  presence  is  due  far  more  often  to  business, 
his  transit  marked  by  speed,  than  the  slow  walk- 
ing or  loitering  which  real  appreciation  demands, 
A  guide-book  will  doubtless  give  the  exact 
acreage,  tell  the  mileage  of  excellent  roads,  re- 
cord the  date  of  establishment,  and  the  number 
of  species  of  palms  and  orchids.  But  it  will  have 
nothing  to  say  of  the  marvels  of  the  slow  decay 
of  a  Victoria  Regia  leaf,  or  of  the  spiral  descent 
of  a  white  egret,  or  of  the  feelings  which  Roose- 
velt and  I  shared  one  evening,  when  four  man- 
atees rose  beneath  us.  It  was  from  a  little  curved 
Japanese  bridge,  and  the  next  morning  we  were 
to  start  up-country  to  my  jungle  laboratory. 
There  was  not  a  ripple  on  the  water,  but  here  I 
chose  to  stand  still  and  wait.  After  ten  minutes 
of  silence,  I  put  a  question  and  Roosevelt  said, 
"I  would  willingly  stand  for  two  days  to  catch  a 
good  glimpse  of  a  wild  manatee."      And  St. 


232  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

Francis  heard,  and,  one  after  another,  four  great 
backs  slowly  heaved  up ;  then  an  ill-formed  head 
and  an  impossible  mouth,  with  the  unbelievable 
harelip,  and  before  our  eyes  the  sea-cows  snorted 
and  gamboled. 

Again,  four  years  later,  I  put  my  whole  soul 
into  a  prayer  for  manatees,  and  again  with  suc- 
cess. During  a  few  moments'  interval  of  a  trop- 
ical downpour,  I  stood  on  the  same  little  bridge 
with  Henry  Fairfield  Osborn.  We  had  only 
half  an  hour  left  in  the  tropics ;  the  steamer  was 
on  the  point  of  sailing;  what,  in  ten  minutes, 
could  be  seen  of  tropical  life!  I  stood  helpless, 
waiting,  hoping  for  anything  which  might  show 
itself  in  this  magic  garden,  where  to-day  the  fo- 
liage was  glistening  malachite  and  the  clouds  a 
great  flat  bowl  of  oxidized  silver. 

The  air  brightened,  and  a  tree  leaning  far 
across  the  water  came  into  view.  On  its  under 
side  was  a  long  silhouetted  line  of  one  and  twenty 
little  fish-eating  bats,  tiny  spots  of  fur  and  skinny 
web,  all  so  much  alike  that  they  might  well  have 
been  one  bat  and  twenty  shadows. 

A  small  crocodile  broke  water  into  air  whicK 
for  him  held  no  moisture,  looked  at  the  bats,  then 
at  us,  and  slipped  back  into  the  world  of  croco-* 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  233 

diles.  A  cackle  arose,  so  shrill  and  sudden,  that 
it  seemed  to  have  been  the  cause  of  the  shower  of 
drops  from  the  palm-fronds;  and  then,  on  the 
great  leaves  of  the  Regia,  which  defy  simile,  we 
perceived  the  first  feathered  folk  of  this  single 
tropical  glimpse — spur-winged  jacanas,  whose 
rich  rufus  and  cool  lemon-yellow  no  dampness 
could  deaden.  With  them  were  gallinules  and 
small  green  herons,  and  across  the  pink  mist  of 
lotos  blossoms  just  beyond,  three  egrets  drew 
three  lines  of  purest  white — and  vanished.  It 
was  not  at  all  real,  this  onrush  of  bird  and  blos- 
som revealed  by  the  temporary  erasing  of  the 
driven  lines  of  gray  rain. 

Like  a  spendthrift  in  the  midst  of  a  winning 
game,  I  still  watched  eagerly  and  ungratefully 
for  manatees.  Kiskadees  splashed  rather  than 
iSew  through  the  drenched  air,  an  invisible  black 
witch  bubbled  somewhere  to  herself,  and  a  wren 
Sang  three  notes  and  a  trill  which  died  out  in  a 
liquid  gurgle.  Then  came  another  crocodile,  and 
finally  the  manatees.  Not  only  did  they  rise  and 
splash  and  roll  and  indolently  flick  themselves 
with  their  great  flippers,  but  they  stood  upright 
on  their  tails,  like  Alice's  carpenter's  companion, 
and  one  fondled  its  young  as  a  water-mamma 


234  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

should.    Then  the  largest  stretched  up  as  far  as 
any  manatee  can  ever  leave  the  water,  and  caught 
and    munched    a    drooping    sprig    of    bamboo. 
Watching    the    great    pufFmg    lips,    we    again 
thought  of  walruses;  but  only  a  caterpillar  could 
emulate  that  sideways  mumbling — the  strangest 
mouth  of  any  mammal.     But  from  behind,  the 
rounded  head,  the  shapely  neck,  tlie  little  baby 
manatee  held  carefully  in  the  curve  of  a  flipper, 
made  legends  of  mermaids  seem  very  reason- 
able; and  if  I  had  been  an  early  voyageuVy  I 
should  assuredly  have  had  stories  to  tell  of  mer- 
kiddies  as  well.    As  we  watched,  the  young  one 
played  about,  slowly  and  deliberately,  without 
frisk  or  gambol,  but  determinedly,  intently,  as 
if  realizing  its  duty  to  an  abstract  conception  of 
youth  and  warm-blooded  mammalness. 

The  earth  holds  few  breathing  beings  stranger 
than  these  manatees.  Their  life  is  a  slow  pro- 
gression through  muddy  water  from  one  bed  of 
lilies  or  reeds  to  another.  Every  few  minutes, 
day  and  night,  year  after  year,  they  come  to  the 
surface  for  a  lungful  of  the  air  which  they  must 
have,  but  in  which  they  cannot  live.  In  place  of 
hands  they  have  flippers,  which  paddle  them  lei- 
surely along,  which  also  serve  to  hold  the  infant 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  235 

manatee,  and  occasionally  to  scratch  themselves 
"when  leeches  irritate.  The  courtship  of  sea- 
cows,  the  qualities  which  appeal  most  to  their 
dull  minds,  the  way  they  protect  the  callow 
youngsters  from  voracious  crocodiles,  how  or 
wliere  they  sleep — of  all  this  we  are  ignorant. 
We  belong  to  the  same  class,  but  the  line  be- 
tween water  and  air  is  a  no  man's  land  which 
neither  of  us  can  pass  for  more  than  a  few  sec- 
onds. 

When  their  big  black  hulks  heaved  slowly  up- 
ward, it  brought  to  my  mind  the  huge  glistening 
backs  of  elephants  bathing  in  Indian  streams; 
and  this  resemblance  is  not  wholly  fantastic. 
"Not  far  from  the  oldest  Egyptian  ruins,  excava- 
tions have  brought  to  light  ruins  millions  of 
Vears  more  ancient — the  fossil  bones  of  o^reat 
creatures  as  strangle  as  any  that  live  in  the  realm 
of  fairyland  or  fiction.  Am.ong  them  was  re- 
vealed the  ancestry  of  elephants,  which  was  also 
that  of  manatees.  Far  back  in  geological  times 
the  tapir-like  Moeritherimn,  which  wandered 
through  Eocene  swamps,  had  within  itself  the 
prophecy  of  two  diverse  lines.  One  would  gain 
great  tuslis  and  a  long,  mobile  trunk  and  live  its 
life   in   distant   tropical   jungles;    and   another 


236  EDGE  OP  THE  JUNGLE 

branch  was  to  sink  still  deeper  into  the  swamp- 
water,  where  its  hind-legs  would  weaken  and 
vanish  as  it  touched  dry  land  less  and  less.  And 
here  to-day  we  watched  a  quartette  of  these  man- 
atees, living  contented  lives  and  breeding  in  the 
gardens  of  Georgetown. 

The  mist  again  drifted  its  skeins  around  leaf 
and  branch,  gray  things  became  grayer,  drops 
formed  in  mid-air  and  slipped  slowly  through 
other  slower  forming  drops,  and  a  moment  later 
rain  was  falling  gently.  We  went  away,  and  to 
our  mind's  eye  the  manatees  behind  that  gray 
curtain  still  munch  bamboos,  the  spur-wings 
stretch  their  colorful  wings  cloudward,  and  the 
bubble-eyed  crocodiles  float  intermittently  be- 
tween two  watery  zones. 

To  say  that  these  are  beautiful  botanical  gar^ 
dens  is  like  the  statement  that  sunsets  are  admir- 
able events.  It  is  better  to  think  of  them  as  a 
setting,  focusing  about  the  greatest  water-lily  in 
the  world,  or,  as  we  have  seen,  the  strangest 
mammal;  or  as  an  exhibit  of  roots — roots  as  va- 
ried and  as  exquisite  as  a  hall  of  famous  sculp- 
ture; or  as  a  wilderness  of  tapestry  foliage,  in 
texture  from  cobweb  to  burlap;  or  as  a  heaven- 
roofed,    sun-furnaced   greenhouse    of   blossoms, 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  23T 

from  the  tiniest  of  dull-green  orchids  to  the  fifty- 
foot  spike  of  taliput  bloom.  With  this  founda- 
tion of  vegetation  recall  that  the  Demerara  coast 
is  a  paradise  for  herons,  egrets,  bitterns,  galli- 
nules,  jacanas,  and  hawks,  and  think  of  those 
trees  and  foliage,  islands  and  marsh,  as  a  nesting 
and  roosting  focus  for  hundreds  of  such  birds. 
Thus,  considering  the  gardens  indirectly,  one 
comes  gradually  to  the  realization  of  their  won- 
derful character. 

The  Victoria  Regia  has  one  thing  in  common 
with  a  volcano — no  amount  of  description  or  of 
colored  plates  prepares  one  for  the  plant  itself. 
In  analysis  we  recall  its  dimensions,  colors,  and 
form.  Standing  by  a  trench  filled  with  its  leaves 
and  flowers,  we  discard  the  records  of  memory, 
and  cleansing  the  senses  of  pre-impressions,  be- 
gin anew.  The  marvel  is  for  each  of  us,  individ- 
ually, an  exception  to  evolution;  it  is  a  special 
creation,  like  all  the  rainbows  seen  in  one's  life 
' — a  thing  to  be  reverently  absorbed  by  sight, 
by  scent,  by  touch,  absorbed  and  realized  without 
precedent  or  limit.  Only  ultimately  do  we  find  it 
necessary  to  adulterate  this  fine  perception  with 
definitive  words  and  phrases,  and  so  attempt  to 
register  it  for  ourselves  or  others. 


238  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

I  have  seen  many  wonderful  sights  from  an 
automobile, — such  as  my  first  Boche  barrage  and 
the  tree  ferns  of  Martinique, — but  none  to  com- 
pare with  the  joys  of  vision  from  prehistoric 
iikka  gharries,  ancient  victorias,  and  aged  hacks. 
It  was  from  the  low  curves  of  these  equine  rick- 
shaws that  I  first  learned  to  love  Paris  and  Cal- 
cutta and  the  water-lilies  of  Georgetown.  One 
of  the  first  rites  which  I  perform  upon  returning 
to  New  York  is  to  o^o  to  the  Lafayette  and,  after 
dinner,  brush  aside  the  taxi  men  and  hail  a  vic- 
toria. The  last  time  I  did  this,  my  driver  was  so 
old  that  two  fellow  drivers,  younger  than  he  and 
yet  grandfatherly,  assisted  him,  one  holding  the 
horse  and  the  other  helping  him  to  his  seat. 
Slowly  ascending  Fifth  Avenue  close  to  the  curb 
and  on  through  Central  Park  is  like  no  other  ex- 
perience. The  vehicle  is  so  low  and  open  that 
all  resemblance  to  bus  or  taxi  is  lost.  Every- 
thing  is  seen  from  a  new  angle.  One  learns  in- 
cidentally that  there  is  a  guild  of  cab-drivers — 
proud,  restrained,  jealous.  A  hundred  cars  rush 
b}^  without  notice.  Suddenly  we  see  the  whip 
brouglit  up  in  salute  to  the  dingy  green  top-hat, 
and  across  the  avenue  we  perceive  another  vic- 
toria.   And  we  are  thrilled  at  the  discovery,  as 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  239 

jf  we  had  unearthed  a  new  codex  of  some  ancient 
ritual. 

And  so,  initiated  by  such  precedent,  I  have 
found  it  a  worthy  thing  to  spend  hours  in  de- 
crepit cabs  loitering  along  side  roads  in  the  Bot- 
anical Gardens,  watching  herons  and  crocodiles, 
lilies  and  manatees,  from  the  rusty  leather  seats. 
At  first  the  driver  looked  at  me  in  astonishment 
as  I  photographed  or  watched  or  wrote;  but  later 
he  attended  to  his  horse,  whispering  strange 
things  into  its  ears,  and  finally  deserted  me.  My 
writing  was  punctuated  by  graceful  flourishes, 
resulting  from  an  occasional  lurch  of  the  vehicle 
as  the  horse  stepped  from  one  to  another  patch 
of  luscious  grass. 

Like  Fujiyama,  the  Victoria  Regia  changes 
from  hour  to  hour,  color-shifted,  wind-swung, 
and  the  mechanism  of  the  blossoms  never  ceas- 
ing. In  northern  greenhouses  it  is  nursed  by 
skilled  gardeners,  kept  in  indifferent  vitality  by 
artificial  heat  and  ventilation,  with  gaged  light 
and  selected  water ;  here  it  was  a  rank  gro^vth,  in 
its  natural  home,  and  here  we  knew  of  its  an- 
tiquity from  birds  whose  toes  had  been  molded 
through  scores  of  centuries  to  tread  its  great 
leaves. 


240  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

In  the  cool  fragrance  of  early  morning,  with 
the  sun  low  across  the  water,  the  leaves  appeared 
like  huge,  milky-white  platters,  with  now  and 
then  little  dancing  silhouettes  running  over  them. 
In  another  slant  of  light  they  seemed  atolls  scat- 
tered thickly  through  a  dark,  quiet  sea,  with 
new-blown  flowers  filling  the  whole  air  with  slow- 
drifting  perfume.  Best  of  all,  in  late  afternoon, 
the  true  colors  came  to  the  eye — six-foot  circles 
of  smooth  emerald,  with  up-turned  hem  of  rich 
wine-color.  Each  had  a  tell-tale  cable  lying 
along  the  surface,  a  score  of  leaves  radiating 
from  one  deep  hidden  root. 

Up  through  mud  and  black  trench-water 
came  the  leaf,  like  a  tiny  fist  of  wrinkles,  and 
day  by  day  spread  and  uncurled,  looking  like  the 
unwieldy  paw  of  a  kitten  or  cub.  The  keels  and 
ribs  covering  the  under-side  increased  in  size  and 
strength,  and  finally  the  great  leaf  was  ironed 
out  by  the  warm  sun  into  a  mighty  sheet  of 
smooth,  emerald  chlorophyll.  Then,  for  a  time, 
— no  one  has  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out 
how  long, — it  was  at  its  best,  swinging  back  and 
forth  at  its  moorings  with  deep  upright  rim,  a 
notch  at  one  side  revealing  the  almost  invisible 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  241 

seam  of  the  great  lobes,  and  serving,  also,  as 
drainage  outlet  for  excess  of  rain. 

A  young  leaf  occasionally  came  to  grief  by 
reaching  the  surface  amid  several  large  ones 
floating  close  together.  Such  a  leaf  expanded, 
as  usual,  but,  like  a  beached  boat,  was  gradually 
forced  high  and  dry,  hardening  into  a  distorted 
shape  and  sinking  only  with  the  decay  of  the  un- 
derlying leaves. 

The  deep  crimson  of  the  outside  of  the  rim 
was  merely  a  reflection  tint,  and  vanished  when 
the  sun  shone  directly  through;  but  the  masses 
of  sharp  spines  were  very  real,  and  quite  efficient 
in  repelling  boarders.  The  leaf  offered  safe 
haven  to  any  creature  that  could  leap  or  fly  to  its 
surface ;  but  its  life  would  be  short  indeed  if  the 
casual  whim  of  every  baby  crocodile  or  flipper  of 
a  young  manatee  met  with  no  opposition. 

Insects  came  from  water  and  from  air  and 
called  the  floating  leaf  home,  and,  from  now  on, 
its  surface  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
busy  arenas  in  this  tropical  landscape. 

In  late  September  I  spread  my  observation 
chair  at  the  very  edge  of  one  of  the  dark  tarns 
and  watched  the  life  on  the  leaves.     Out  at  the 


242  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

center  a  fussy  jacana  was  feeding  with  her  two 
spindly-legged  habies,  while,  stiil  nearer,  three 
scarlet-helmeted  gallinules  lumbered  about,  now 
and  then  tipping  over  a  silvery  and  black  infant 
which  seemed  puzzled  as  to  which  it  should  call 
parent.  Here  was  a  clear  example,  not  only  of 
the  abundance  of  life  in  the  tropics,  but  of  the 
keen  competition.  The  jacana  invariably  lays 
four  eggs,  and  the  gallinule,  at  this  latitude,  six 
or  eight,  yet  only  a  fraction  of  the  young  had 
survived  even  to  this  tender  a.^e. 

As  I  looked,  a  small  crocodile  rose,  splashed, 
and  sank,  sending  terror  among  the  gallinules, 
but  arousing  the  spur-wing  jacana  to  a  high 
pitch  of  anger.  It  left  its  young  and  flew  di- 
rectly to  the  widening  circles  and  hovered,  cack" 
ling  loudly.  These  birds  have  ample  ability  to 
cope  v/ith  the  dangers  which  menace  from  be- 
neath; but  their  fear  was  from  above,  and  every 
passing  heron,  egret,  or  harmless  hawk  was  given 
a  quick  scrutiny,  with  an  instinctive  crouch  and 
half -spread  win^-s. 

But  stiil  the  whole  scene  Vv^as  peaceful;  and  as 
the  sun  grew  warmer,  young  herons  and  egrets 
crawled  out  of  their  nests  on  the  island  a  few 
yards  away  and  preened  their  scanty  plumage. 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  243 

Kiskadees  splashed  and  dipped  along  the  margin 
of  the  water.  Eveiywhere  this  species  seems 
seized  with  an  aquatic  fervor,  and  in  localities 
hundreds  of  miles  apart  I  have  seen  them  gradu- 
ally desert  their  fly-catching  for  surface  feeding, 
or  often  plunging,  kingfisher-like,  bodily  be- 
neath, to  emerge  with  a  small  wriggling  fish — 
another  certain  reflection  of  overpopulation  and 
competition. 

As  I  sat  I  heard  a  rustle  behind  me,  and  there, 
not  eight  feet  away,  narrow  snout  held  high,  one 
tiny  foot  lifted,  was  that  furry  fiend,  Rikki-tikki. 
He  was  too  quick  for  me,  and  dived  into  a  small 
clump  of  undergrowth  and  bamboos.  Eut  I 
wanted  a  specimen  of  mongoose,  and  the  artist 
offered  to  beat  one  end  of  the  bush.  Soon  I  saw 
the  gray  form  undulating  along,  and  as  the  rus- 
tling cam.e  nearer,  he  shot  forth,  moving  in  great 
bounds.  I  waited  until  he  had  covered  half  the 
distance  to  the  next  clump  and  rolled  him  over. 
Going  back  to  my  chair,  I  found  that  neither 
jacana,  nor  gailinules,  nor  herons  had  been  dis- 
turbed by  mv  shot. 

While  the  introduction  of  the  mongoose  into 
Guiana  was  a  very  reckless,  foolish  act,  yet  he 
seems  to  be  having  a  rather  hard  time  of  it,  and 


2U  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

with  islands  and  lily-pads  as  havens,  and  water- 
ways in  every  direction,  Rikki  is  reduced  chiefly 
to  grasshoppers  and  such  small  game.  He  has 
spread  along  the  entire  coast,  through  the  cane- 
fields  and  around  the  rice-swamps,  and  it  will 
not  be  his  fault  if  he  does  not  eventually  get  a 
foothold  in  the  jungle  itself. 

No  month  or  day  or  hour  fails  to  bring  vital 
changes — tragedies  and  comedies — to  the  net- 
work of  life  of  these  tropical  gardens ;  but  as  we 
drive  along  the  broad  paths  of  an  afternoon,  the 
quiet  vistas  show  only  waving  palms,  weaving 
vultures,  and  swooping  kiskadees,  with  bursts  of 
color  from  bougainvillea,  flamboyant,  and  queen 
of  the  flowers.  At  certain  times,  however,  the 
tide  of  visible  change  swelled  into  a  veritable 
bore  of  life,  gently  and  gradually,  as  quiet  wa- 
ters become  troubled  and  then  pass  into  the 
seething  uproar  of  rapids.  In  late  afternoon, 
when  the  long  shadows  of  palms  stretched  their 
blue-black  bars  across  the  terra-cotta  roads,  the 
foliage  of  the  green  bamboo  islands  was  dotted 
here  and  there  with  a  scattering  of  young  herons, 
white  and  blue  and  parti-colored.  Idly  watch- 
ing them  through  glasses,  I  saw  them  sleepily 
preening  their  sprouting  feathers,  making  inef- 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  245 

fectual  attempts  at  pecking  one  another,  or  else 
hunched  in  silent  heron-dream.  They  were 
scarcely  more  alive  than  the  creeping,  hour-hand 
tendrils  about  them,  mere  double-stemmed,  fluffy 
petaled  blossoms,  no  more  strange  than  the  near- 
est vegetable  blooms — the  cannon-ball  mystery, 
the  sand-box  puzzle,  sinister  orchids,  and  the 
false  color-alarms  of  the  white-bracted  silver- 
leaf.  Compared  with  these,  perching  herons  are 
right  and  seemly  fruit. 

As  I  watched  them  I  suddenly  stiffened  in 
sympathy,  as  I  saw  all  vegetable  sloth  drop  away 
and  each  bird  become  a  detached  individual, 
plucked  by  an  electric  emotion  from  the  appear- 
ance of  a  thing  of  sap  and  fiber  to  a  vital  being 
of  tingling  nerves.  I  followed  their  united 
glance,  and  overhead  there  vibrated,  lightly  as  a 
thistledown,  the  first  incoming  adult  heron, 
swinging  in  from  a  day's  fishing  along  the  coast. 
It  went  on  and  vanished  among  the  fronds  of  a 
distant  island;  but  the  calm  had  been  broken, 
and  through  all  the  stems  there  ran  a  restless 
sense  of  anticipation,  a  Zeitgeist  of  prophetic  im- 
port. One  felt  that  memory  of  past  things  was 
dimming,  and  content  with  present  comfort  was 
no  longer  dominant.    It  was  the  future  to  which 


246  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

both  the  baby  herons  and  I  were  looking,  and  for 
them  reah'zation  came  quickly.  The  sun  had 
sunk  still  lower,  and  great  clouds  had  begun  to 
spread  their  robes  and  choose  their  tints  for  the 
coming  pageant. 

And  now  the  vanguard  of  the  homing  host  ap- 
peared,— black  dots  against  blue  and  white  and 
salmon, — thin,  gaunt  forms  with  slow-moving 
wings  which  cut  the  air  through  half  the  sky. 
The  little  herons  and  I  watched  them  come — first 
a  single  white  egret,  which  spiralled  down,  just 
as  I  had  many  times  seen  the  first  returning  Spad 
eddy  downward  to  a  cluster  of  great  hump- 
backed hangars ;  then  a  trio  of  tricolored  herons, 
and  six  little  blues,  and  after  that  I  lost  count. 
It  seemed  as  if  these  tiny  islands  were  magnets 
drawing  all  the  herons  in  the  world. 

Parrakeets  whirl  roostwards  with  machine-like 
synchronism  of  flight ;  geese  wheel  dovv^n  in  more 
or  less  regular  formation;  but  these  herons  con- 
centrated along  straight  lines,  each  describing 
its  individual  radius  from  the  spot  where  it 
caught  its  last  fish  or  shrimp  to  its  nest  or  the 
particular  branch  on  which  it  w^ill  spend  the 
night.  With  a  hemicircle  of  sufficient  size,  one 
might  plot  all  of  the  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  247 

these  radii,  and  each  would  represent  a  distinct 
line,  if  only  a  heron's  width  apart. 

At  the  height  of  the  evening's  flight  there  were 
sometimes  fifty  herons  in  sight  at  once,  beating 
steadily  onward  until  almost  overhead,  when  they 
put  on  brakes  and  dropped.  Some,  as  the  little 
egrets,  were  rather  awkward;  while  the  tricolors 
were  the  most  skilful,  sometimes  nose-diving, 
with  a  sudden  flattening  out  just  in  time  to  reach 
out  and  grasp  a  branch.  Once  or  twice,  when  a 
fitful  breeze  blew  at  sunset,  I  had  a  magnificent 
^exhibition  of  aeronautics.  The  birds  came  up- 
wind slowly,  beating  their  way  obliquely  but 
steadily,  long  legs  stretched  out  far  behind  the 
tail  and  swinging  pendulum-like  whenever  a  shift 
of  ballast  was  needed.  They  apparently  did  not 
realize  the  unevenness  of  the  wind,  for  when  they 
backed  air,  ready  to  descend,  a  sudden  gust 
would  often  undercut  them  and  over  thev  would 
go,  legs,  wings,  and  neck  sprawh'ng  in  mid-air. 
After  one  or  two  somersaults  or  a  short,  swift 
dive,  they  would  right  themselves,  feathers  on 
end,  and  frantically  grasp  at  the  first  leaf  or  twig 
within  reach.  Panting,  they  looked  helplessly 
around,  reorientation  coming  gradually. 

At  each  arrival,  a  hoarse  chorus  went  up  from 


248  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

hungry  throats,  and  every  youngster  within  reach 
scrambled  wildly  forward,  hopeful  of  a  fish 
course.  They  received  but  scant  courtesy  and 
usually  a  vicious  peck  tumbled  them  off  the 
branch.  I  saw  a  young  bird  fall  to  the  water, 
and  this  mishap  was  from  no  attack,  but  due  to 
his  tripping  over  his  own  feet,  the  claws  of  one 
foot  gripping  those  of  the  other  in  an  insane 
clasp,  which  overbalanced  him.  He  fell  through 
a  thin  screen  of  vines  and  splashed  half  onto  a 
small  Regia  leaf.  With  neck  and  wings  he  strug- 
gled to  pull  himself  up,  and  had  almost  suc- 
ceeded when  heron  and  leaf  sank  slowly,  and 
only  the  bare  stem  swung  up  again.  A  few  bub- 
bles led  off  in  a  silvery  path  toward  deeper  water, 
showing  where  a  crocodile  swam  slowly  off  with 
his  prey. 

For  a  time  the  birds  remained  still,  and  then 
crept  within  the  tangles,  to  their  mates  or  nests, 
or  quieted  the  clamor  of  the  young  with  warm- 
storage  fish.  How  each  one  knew  its  o^vn  off- 
spring was  beyond  my  ken,  but  on  three  separate 
evenings  scattered  through  one  week,  I  observed 
an  individual,  marked  by  a  wing-gap  of  two  lost 
feathers,  come,  within  a  quarter-hour  of  six 
o'clock,  and  feed  a  great  awkward  youngster 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  249 

which  had  lost  a  single  feather  from  each  wing. 
So  there  was  no  hit-or-miss  method — no  luck  in 
the  strongest  birds  taking  toll  from  more  than 
two  of  the  returning  parents. 

Observing  this  vesper  migration  in  different 
places,  I  began  to  see  orderly  segregation  on  a 
large  scale.  All  the  smaller  herons  dwelt  to- 
gether on  certain  islands  in  more  or  less  social 
tolerance;  and  on  adjoining  trees,  separated  by 
only  a  few  yards,  scores  of  hawks  concentrated 
and  roosted,  content  with  their  snail  diet,  and 
wholly  ignoring  their  neighbors.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  gardens,  in  aristocratic  isolation,  was 
a  colony  of  stately  American  egrets,  dainty  and 
graceful.  Their  circumference  of  radiation  was 
almost  or  quite  a  circle,  for  they  preferred  the 
ricefields  for  their  daily  hunting.  Here  the  great 
birds,  snowy  white,  with  flowing  aigrettes,  and 
long,  curving  necks,  settled  with  dignity,  and 
here  they  slept  and  sat  on  their  rough  nests  of 
sticks. 

When  the  height  of  homing  flight  of  the  host 
of  herons  had  passed,  I  noticed  a  new  element  of 
restlessness,  and  here  and  there  among  the  fo- 
liage appeared  dull-brown  figures.  There  oc- 
curred the  comic  explanation  of  white  herons 


250  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

who  had  crept  deep  among  the  branches,  again 
emerging  in  house  coat  of  drab  I  These  were  not 
the  same,  however,  and  the  first  glance  through 
binoculars  showed  the  thick-set,  humped  figures 
and  huge,  staring  eyes  of  night  herons. 

As  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  left  the  summit  of 
the  royal  palms,  something  like  the  shadow  of  a 
heron  flashed  out  and  away,  and  then  the  import 
of  these  facts  was  impressed  upon  me.  The 
egret,  the  night  heron,  the  vampire — here  were 
three  types  of  organisms,  characterizing  the  ac- 
tions and  reactions  in  nature.  The  islands  were 
receiving  and  giving  up.  Their  heart  was  be- 
coming filled  with  the  many  day-feeding  birds, 
and  now  the  night-shift  was  leaving,  and  the 
very  branch  on  which  a  night  heron  might  have 
been  dozing  all  day  was  now  occupied,  perhaps, 
by  a  sleeping  egret.  With  eyes  enlarged  to 
gather  together  the  scanty  rays  of  light,  the  night 
herons  were  slipping  away  in  the  path  of  the 
vampires — both  nocturnal,  but  unlike  in  all  other 
ways.  And  I  wondered  if,  in  the  very  early 
morning,  infant  night  herons  would  greet  their 
returning  parents;  and  if  their  callow  young  ever 
fell  into  the  dark  waters,  what  awful  deathly  al* 


A  TROPIC  GARDEN  251 

ternates  would  night  reveal;  or  were  the  slow- 
living  crocodiles  sleepless,  with  cruel  eyes  which 
never  closed  so  soundly  but  that  the  splash  of  a 
young  night  heron  brougnt  instant  response? 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES 

Butterflies  doing  strange  things  in  very 
beautiful  ways  were  in  my  mind  when  I  sat 
down,  but  by  the  time  my  pen  was  uncapped 
my  thoughts  had  shifted  to  rocks.  The  ink  was 
refractory  and  a  vigorous  flick  sent  a  shower  of 
green  drops  over  the  sand  on  which  I  was  sitting, 
and  as  I  watched  the  ink  settle  into  the  absorbent 
quartz — the  inversions  of  our  grandmothers' 
blotters — I  thought  of  what  jolly  things  the  lost 
ink  might  have  been  made  to  say  about  butter' 
flies  and  rocks,  if  it  could  have  flowed  out  slowly 
in  curves  and  angles  and  dots  over  paper — for 
the  things  we  might  have  done  are  always  so 
much  more  worthy  than  those  which  we  actually 
accomplish.  When  at  last  I  began  to  write,  a 
song  came  to  my  ears  and  my  mind  again  looped 
backward.  At  least,  there  came  from  the  very 
deeps  of  the  water  beyond  the  mangroves  a  low, 
metallic  murmur;  and  my  Stormouth  says  that 
in  Icelandic  sangra  means  to  murmur.    So  what 

252 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  253 

is  a  murmur  in  Iceland  may  very  well  be  a  song 
in  Guiana.  At  any  rate,  my  pen  would  have  to 
do  only  with  words  of  singing  catfish;  yet  from 
butterflies  to  rock,  to  fish,  all  was  logical  looping 
— mental  giant-swings  which  came  as  relaxation 
after  hours  of  observation  of  unrelated  sheer 
facts. 

The  singing  cats,  so  my  pen  consented  to  write, 
had  serenaded  me  while  I  crossed  the  Cuyuni  in 
a  canoe.  There  arose  deep,  liquid,  vibrating 
sounds,  such  as  those  I  now  heard,  deep  and 
penetrating,  as  if  from  some  submarine  gong — a 
gong  which  could  not  be  thought  of  as  wet,  for  it 
had  never  been  dry.  As  I  stopped  paddling  the 
sound  became  absolute  vibration,  the  canoe  itself 
seemed  to  tremble,  the  paddle  tingled  in  my 
hands.  It  was  wholly  detached;  it  came  from 
whatever  direction  the  ear  sought  it.  Then,  with- 
out dying  out,  it  was  reinforced  by  another 
sound,  rhythmical,  abrupt,  twanging,  filling  the 
water  and  air  with  a  slow  measure  on  four  notes. 
The  water  swirled  beside  the  canoe,  and  a  face 
appeared — a  monstrous,  complacent  face,  such 
as  Bocklin  would  love — a  face  inhuman  in  pos- 
sessing the  quality  of  supreme  contentment. 
Framed  in  the  brown  waters,  the  head  of  the 


254  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

great,  grinning  catfish  rose,  and  slowly  sank, 
leaving  outlines  discernible  in  ripples  and  bub- 
bles with  almost  Cheshire  persistency.  One  of 
my  Indians,  passing  in  his  dugout,  smiled  at  my 
peering  down  after  the  fish,  and  murmured, 
"Eoom-boom." 

Then  came  a  day  when  one  of  these  huge,  ami- 
able, living  smiles  blundered  into  our  net,  a  smile 
a  foot  wide  and  six  feet  long,  and  even  as  he  lay 
quietly  awaiting  what  fate  brought  to  great  cat- 
fish, he  sang,  both  theme  and  accompaniment. 
His  whole  being  throbbed  with  the  continuous 
deep  drumming  as  the  thin,  silky  walls  of  his 
swim-bladder  vibrated  in  the  depths  of  his  body. 
The  oxygen  in  the  air  was  slowly  killing  him, 
and  yet  his  swan  song  was  possible  because  of  an 
inner  atmosphere  so  rich  in  this  gas  that  it  would 
be  unbreathable  by  a  creature  of  the  land.  Nerve 
and  muscle,  special  expanse  of  circling  bones, 
swim-bladder  and  its  tenuous  gas — all  these  com- 
bined to  produce  the  aquatic  harmony.  But  as 
if  to  load  this  contented  being  with  largesse  of 
apparently  useless  abilities,  the  two  widespread- 
ing  fin  spines — the  fins  which  correspond  to 
our  arms — were  swiveled  in  rough-ridged  cups 
at  what  might  have  been  shoulders,  and  when 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  255 

moved  back  and  forth  the  stridulation  troubled 
all  the  water,  and  the  air,  too,  with  the  muffled, 
twanging,  rtp,  rip,  rip,  rip.  The  two  spines  were 
tuned  separately,  the  right  being  a  full  tone 
lower,  and  the  backward  drawing  of  the  bow 
gave  a  higher  note  than  its  forward  reach.  So, 
alternately,  at  a  full  second  tempo,  the  four  tones 
rose  and  fell,  carrying  out  some  strange  Silurian 
theme:  a  muffled  cadence  of  undertones,  which, 
thrilled  with  the  mystery  of  their  author  and 
cause,  yet  merged  smoothly  with  the  cosmic  or- 
chestra of  wind  and  ripples  and  distant  rain. 

So  the  great,  smooth,  arching  lift  of  granite 
rocks  at  our  bungalow's  shore,  where  the  giant 
catfish  sang,  was  ever  afterward  Boom-boom 
Point.  And  now  I  sat  close  by  on  the  sand  and 
strove  to  think  anew  of  my  butterflies,  for  they 
were  the  reason  of  my  being  there  that  brilhant 
October  afternoon.  But  still  my  pen  refused, 
hovering  about  the  thing  of  ultimate  interest  as 
one  leaves  the  most  desired  book  to  the  last.  For 
again  the  ear  claimed  dominance,  and  I  listened 
to  a  new  little  refrain  over  my  shoulder.  I  pic- 
tured a  tiny  sawhorse,  and  a  midget  who  labored 
with  might  and  main  to  cut  through  a  never-end- 
ing stint  of  twigs.    I  chose  to  keep  my  image  to 


256  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

the  last,  and  did  not  move  or  look  around,  until 
there  came  the  slightest  of  tugs  at  my  knee,  and 
into  view  clambered  one  of  those  beings  who  are 
so  beautiful  and  bizarre  that  one  almost  thinks 
they  should  not  be.  My  second  singer  was  a 
beetle — an  awkward,  enormous,  serious,  brilliant 
beetle,  with  six-inch  antennas  and  great  wing 
covers,  which  combined  the  hues  of  the  royal 
robes  of  Queen  Thi,  tempered  by  thousands  of 
years  of  silent  darkness  in  the  underground 
tombs  at  Sakhara,  with  the  grace  of  curve  and 
angle  of  equally  ancient  characters  on  the  hill 
tombs  of  Fokien.  On  a  background  of  olive 
ochre  there  blazed  great  splashes  and  characters 
of  the  red  of  jasper  framed  in  black.  Toward 
the  front  Nature  had  tried  heavy  black  stippling, 
but  it  clouded  the  pattern  and  she  had  given  it  up 
in  order  that  I  might  think  of  Egypt  and  Cathay. 
But  the  thing  which  took  the  beetle  quite  out 
of  a  world  of  reasonable  things  was  his  forelegs. 
They  were  outrageous,  and  he  seemed  to  think 
so,  too,  for  they  got  in  his  way,  and  caught  in 
wrong  things  and  pulled  him  to  one  side.  They 
were  three  times  the  length  of  his  other  limbs, 
spreading  sideways  a  full  thirteen  inches,  long, 
slender,    beautifully    sculptured,    and    forever 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  257 

reaching  out  in  front  for  whatever  long-armed 
beetles  most  desire.  And  his  song,  as  he  chmbed 
over  me,  was  squeaky  and  sawhke,  and  as  he 
walked  he  doddered,  head  trembling  as  an  old 
man's  shakes  in  final  acquiescence  in  the  futility 
of  life. 

But  in  this  great-armed  beetle  it  was  a  nod- 
ding of  necessity,  a  doddering  of  desire,  the 
drawing  of  the  bow  across  the  strings  in  a  hymn 
of  hope  which  had  begun  in  past  time  with  the 
first  stridulation  of  ancient  insects.  To-day  the 
fiddling  vibrations,  the  Song  of  the  Beetle, 
reached  out  in  all  directions.  To  the  majority 
of  jungle  ears  it  was  only  another  note  in  the 
day's  chorus;  I  saw  it  attract  a  flycatcher's  at- 
tention, hold  it  a  moment,  and  then  lose  it.  To 
me  it  came  as  a  vitally  interesting  tone  of  deep 
significance,  for  whatever  emotions  it  might 
arouse  in  casual  ears,  its  goal  was  another  Great- 
armed  Beetle,  who  might  or  might  not  cotme 
within  its  radius.  With  unquestioning  search 
the  fiddler  clambered  on  and  on,  over  me  and 
over  flowers  and  rocks,  skirting  the  ripples  and 
vanishing  into  a  maelstrom  of  waving  grass. 
Long  after  the  last  awkward  lurch,  there  came 
back  zizzing   squeaks   of  perfect   faith,   and   I 


258  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

hoped,  as  I  passed  beyond  the  periphery  of 
sound,  that  instinct  and  desire  might  direct  their 
rolling  ball  of  vibrations  toward  the  one  whose 
ear,  whether  in  antenna,  or  thorax  or  femoral 
tympanum  had,  through  untold  numbers  of  past 
lives,  been  attuned  to  its  rhythm. 

Two  thousand  miles  north  of  where  I  sat,  or 
ten  million,  five  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  feet 
(for,  like  Bunker  Beans  book-keeper,  I  some- 
times like  to  think  of  things  that  way),  I  would 
look  out  of  the  window  one  morning  in  days  to 
come,  and  thrill  at  the  sight  of  falling  flakes. 
The  emotion  would  very  probably  be  sentiment 
— the  memory  of  wonderful  northland  snow- 
storms, of  huge  fires,  of  evenings  with  Roosevelt, 
when  discussions  always  led  to  unknowable 
fields,  when  book  after  book  yielded  its  phrase 
or  sentence  of  pure  gold  thought.  On  one  of  the 
last  of  such  evenings  I  found  a  forgotten  joy-of- 
battle-speech  of  Huxley's,  which  stimulated  two 
full  days  and  four  books  re-read — while  flakes 
swirled  and  invisible  winds  came  swiftly  around 
the  eaves  over  the  great  trophies — poussant  des 
soupirs, — we  longing  with  our  whole  souls  for  an 
hour  of  talk  with  that  splendid  old  fighting  scien- 
tist. 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  259 

These  are  thoughts  which  come  at  first-snow, 
thoughts  humanly  narrow  and  personal  com- 
pared to  the  later  delights  of  snow  itself — crys- 
tals and  tracks,  the  strangeness  of  freezing  and 
the  mystery  of  melting.  And  they  recurred  now 
because  for  days  past  I  had  idly  watched  scat- 
tered flurries  of  lemon-yellow  and  of  orange  but- 
terflies drift  past  Kartabo.  Down  the  two  great 
Guiana  rivers  they  came,  steadily  progressing, 
yet  never  hurrying;  with  zigzag  flickering  flight 
they  barely  cleared  the  trees  and  shrubs,  and  then 
skimmed  the  surface,  vanishing  when  ripples 
caught  the  light,  redoubled  by  reflection  when 
the  water  lay  quiet  and  polished.  For  month 
after  month  they  passed,  sometimes  absent  for 
days  or  weeks,  but  soon  to  be  counted  at  earliest 
sunup,  always  arousing  renewed  curiosity,  al- 
ways bringing  to  mind  the  first  flurry  of  winter. 

We  watch  the  autumn  passing  of  birds  with 
regret,  but  when  the  bluebirds  warble  their  way 
southward  we  are  cheered  with  the  hope  and  the 
knowledge  that  some,  at  least,  will  return.  Here, 
vast  stretches  of  country,  perhaps  all  Guiana, 
and  how  much  of  Brazil  and  Venezuela  no  one 
knows,  poured  forth  a  steady  stream  of  yellow 
and  orange  butterflies.    They  were  very  beauti- 


260  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

fill  and  they  danced  and  flickered  in  the  sunlight, 
but  this  was  no  temporary  shifting  to  a  pleas- 
anter  clime  or  a  land  of  more  abundant  flowers, 
but  a  migration  in  the  grim  old  sense  which  Cicero 
loved,  non  duhitat  .  .  ,  niigrare  de  vita.  No  but- 
terfly ever  turned  back,  or  cycled  again  to  the 
glade,  with  its  yellow  cassia  blooms  where  he 
had  spent  his  caterpillarhood.  Nor  did  he  fly 
toward  the  north  star  or  the  sunset,  but  between 
the  two.  Twelve  years  before,  as  I  passed  up 
the  Essequibo  and  the  Cuyuni,  I  noticed  hun- 
dreds of  yellow  butterflies  each  true  to  his  little 
compass  variation  of  NNW. 

There  are  times  and  places  in  Guiana  where 
emigrating  butterflies  turn  to  the  north  or  the 
south;  sometimes  for  days  at  a  time,  but  sooner 
or  later  the  eddies  straighten  out,  their  little  flo- 
tillas cease  tacking,  and  all  swing  again  NNW. 

To-day  the  last  of  the  migration  stragglers  of 
the  year — perhaps  the  fiftieth  great-grandsons  o^ 
those  others — held  true  to  the  Catopsilian  lode- 
stone. 

My  masculine  pronouns  are  intentional,  for  of 
all  the  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  mi- 
grants, all,  as  far  as  I  know,  were  males.  Catch 
a  dozen  yellows  in  a  jungle  glade  and  the  sexes 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  261 

may  be  equal.  But  the  irresistible  maelstrom  im- 
pels only  the  males.  Whence  they  come  or  why 
they  go  is  as  utterly  unknown  to  us  as  why  the 
females  are  immune. 

Once,  from  the  deck  of  a  steamer,  far  off  the 
Guiana  coast,  I  saw  hosts  of  these  same  great  saf- 
fron-wings flying  well  above  the  water,  headed 
for  the  open  sea.  Behind  them  were  sheltering 
fronds,  nectar,  soft  winds,  mates ;  before  were  cor- 
roding salt,  rising  waves,  lowering  clouds,  a 
storm  imminent.  Their  course  was  NNW,  they 
sailed  under  sealed  orders,  their  port  was  Death. 

Looking  out  over  the  great  expanse  of  the  Ma- 
zarimi,  the  fluttering  insects  were  usually  rather 
evenly  distributed,  each  with  a  few  yards  of  clear 
space  about  it,  but  very  rarely — I  have  seen  it 
only  twice — a  new  force  became  operative.  Not 
only  were  the  little  volant  beings  siphoned  up  in 
untold  numbers  from  their  normal  life  of  sleep- 
ing, feeding,  dancing  about  their  mates,  but  they 
were  blindly  poured  into  an  invisible  artery, 
down  which  they  flowed  in  close  association, 
veritables  corjmscules  de  papillons,  almost  touch- 
ing, forming  a  bending  ribbon,  winding  its  way 
seaward,  with  here  and  there  a  temporary  fray- 
ing out  of  eddying  wings.    It  seemed  like  a  way- 


'262  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

ward  cloud  still  stained  with  last  night's  sunset 
yellow,  which  had  set  out  on  its  own  path  over 
rivers  and  jungles  to  join  the  sea  mists  beyond 
the  uttermost  trees. 

Such  a  swarm  seemed  imbued  with  an  ecstasy 
of  travel  which  surpassed  discomfort.  Deep 
cloud  shadows  might  settle  down,  but  only 
dimmed  the  painted  wings;  under  raindrops  the 
ribbon  sagged,  the  insects  flying  closer  to  the 
water.  On  the  other  hand,  the  scattered  hosts 
of  the  more  ordinary  migrations,  while  they 
turned  neither  to  the  north  nor  to  the  west,  yet 
fled  at  the  advent  of  clouds  and  rain,  seeking 
shelter  under  the  nearest  fohage.  So  much! 
loitering  was  permitted,  but  with  the  coming  of 
the  sun  again  they  must  desert  the  pleasant  feel 
of  velvet  leaves,  the  rain-washed  odors  of  stream- 
ing blossoms,  and  set  their  antennae  unquestion- 
ingly  upon  the  strange  last  turn  of  their  wheel 
of  life. 

What  crime  of  ancestors  are  they  expiating? 
In  some  forgotten  caterpillardom  was  an  act 
committed,  so  terrible  that  it  can  never  be  known, 
except  through  the  working  out  of  the  karma 
upon  millions  of  butterflies?  Or  does  there  lin- 
ger in  the  innumerable  little  ganglion  minds  a 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  263 

memory  of  long-lost  Atlantis,  so  compelling  to 
masculine  Catopsilias  that  the  supreme  effort  of 
their  lives  is  an  attempt  to  envisage  it?  "Ab- 
surd fancies,  all,"  says  our  conscious  entomologi- 
cal sense,  and  we  agree  and  sweep  them  aside. 
And  then  quite  as  readily,  more  reasonable  scien- 
tific theories  fall  asunder,  and  we  are  left  at  last 
alone  with  the  butterflies,  a  vast  ignorance,  and 
a  great  unfulfilled  desire  to  know  what  it  all 
means. 

On  this  October  day  the  migration  of  the  year 
had  ceased.  To  my  coarse  senses  the  sunlight 
was  of  equal  intensity,  the  breeze  unchanged, 
the  whole  aspect  the  same — and  yet  something  as 
intangible  as  thought,  as  impelling  as  gravita- 
tion, had  ceased  to  operate.  The  tension  once 
slackened,  the  butterflies  took  up  their  more  usual 
lives.  But  what  could  I  know  of  the  meaning  of 
"normal"  in  the  life  of  a  butterfly — I  who 
boasted  a  miserable  single  pair  of  eyes  and  no 
greater  number  of  legs,  whose  shoulders  sup- 
ported only  shoulder  blades,  and  whose  youth 
was  barren  of  caterpillarian  memories! 

As  I  have  said,  migration  was  at  an  end,  yet 
here  I  had  stumbled  upon  a  Bay  of  Butterflies. 
No  matter  whether   one's   interest  in   life   lav^ 


264  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

chiefly  with  ornithology,  teetotalism,  arrowheads, 
politics^  botany,  or  finance,  in  this  bay  one's 
thoughts  would  be  sure  to  be  concentrated  on 
butterflies.  And  no  less  interesting  than  the  but- 
terflies were  their  immediate  surroundings.  The 
day  before,  I  had  sat  close  by  on  a  low  boulder 
at  the  head  of  the  tiny  bay,  with  not  a  butterfly  in 
sight.  It  occurred  to  me  that  my  ancestor, 
Eryops,  would  have  been  perfectly  at  home,  for 
in  front  of  me  were  clumps  of  strange,  carbonif- 
erous rushes,  lacking  leaves  and  grace,  and 
sedges  such  as  might  be  fashioned  in  an  attempt 
to  make  plants  out  of  green  straw.  Here  and 
there  an  ancient  jointed  stem  was  in  blossom,  a 
pinnacle  of  white  filaments,  and  hour  after  hour 
there  came  little  brown  trigonid  visitors,  sting- 
less  bees,  whose  nests  were  veritable  museums 
of  flower  extracts — tubs  of  honey,  hampers  of 
pollen,  barrels  of  ambrosia,  hoarded  in  castles 
of  wax.  Scirpus-sedge  or  orchid,  all  was  the 
same  to  them. 

All  odor  evaded  me  until  I  had  recourse  to 
my  usual  olfactory  crutch,  placing  the  flower  in 
a  vial  in  the  sunlight.  Delicate  indeed  was  the 
fragrance  which  did  not  yield  itself  to  a  few  min- 
utes of  this  distillation.    As  I  removed  the  cork 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  265 

there  gently  arose  the  scent  of  thyme,  and  of 
rose  petals  long  pressed  between  the  leaves  of 
old,  old  books — a  scent  memorable  of  days  an- 
cient to  us,  which  in  past  lives  of  sedges  would 
count  but  a  moment.  In  an  instant  it  passed, 
drowned  in  the  following  smell  of  bruised  stem. 
But  I  had  surprised  the  odor  of  this  age-old 
growth,  as  evanescent  as  the  faint  sound  of  the 
breeze  silting  through  the  cluster  of  leafless 
stalks.  I  felt  certain  that  Eryops,  although  liv- 
ing among  horserushes  and  ancient  sedges,  never 
smelled  or  listened  to  them,  and  a  glow  of  satis- 
faction came  over  me  at  the  thought  that  per- 
haps I  represented  an  advance  on  this  funny  old 
forebear  of  mine ;  but  then  I  thought  of  the  little 
bees,  drawn  from  afar  by  the  scent,  and  I  re- 
turned to  my  usual  sense  of  human  futility, 
which  is  always  dominant  in  the  presence  of  in- 
sect activities. 

I  leaned  back,  crowding  into  a  crevice  of  rock, 
and  strove  to  realize  more  deeply  the  kinship  of 
these  fine  earth  neighbors.  Bone  of  my  bone  in- 
deed they  were,  but  their  quiet  dignity,  their 
calmness  in  storm  and  sun,  their  poise,  their  dis- 
regard of  all  small,  petty  things,  whether  of  me- 
chanics, whether  chemical   or   emotional — these 


266  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

were  attributes  to  which  I  could  only  aspire,  be- 
ing the  prerogatives  of  superiors. 

These  rocks,  in  particular,  seemed  of  the  very 
essence  of  earth.  Three  elements  fought  over 
them.  The  sand  and  soil  from  which  they  lifted 
their  splendid  heads  sifted  down,  or  was  washed 
up,  in  vain  effort  to  cover  them.  More  subtly 
dead  tree  trunks  fell  upon  them,  returned  to 
earth,  and  strove  to  encloak  them.  For  six  hours 
at  a  time  the  water  claimed  them,  enveloping 
them  slowly  in  a  mantle  of  quicksilver,  or  surg- 
ing over  with  rough  waves.  Algal  spores  took 
hold,  desmids  and  diatoms  swam  in  and  settled 
down,  little  fish  wandered  in  and  out  of  the  crev- 
ices, while  large  ones  nosed  at  the  entrances. 

Then  Mother  Earth  turned  slowly  onward; 
the  moon,  reaching  down,  beckoned  with  invisible 
fingers,  and  the  air  again  entered  this  no  man's 
land.  Breezes  whispered  where  a  few  moments 
before  ripples  had  lapped;  with  the  sun  as  ally, 
the  last  remaining  pool  vanished  and  there  began 
the  hours  of  aerial  dominion.  The  most  envied 
character  of  our  lesser  brethren  is  their  faith. 
'No  matter  how  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
tides  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  yet  to-day  every 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  267 

pinch  of  life  which  was  blown  or  walked  or  fell 
or  flew  to  the  rocks  during  their  brief  respite 
from  the  waves,  accepted  the  good  dry  surface 
without  question. 

Seeds  and  berries  fell,  and  rolled  into  hollows 
rich  in  mulcted  earth;  parachutes,  buoyed  on 
thistle  silk,  sailed  from  distant  jungle  plants; 
every  swirl  of  breeze  brought  spores  of  lichens 
and  moss,  and  even  the  retreating  water  unwit- 
tingly aided,  having  transported  hither  and 
dropped  a  cargo  of  living  things,  from  tiniest 
plant  to  seeds  of  mightiest  mora.  Though  in  the 
few  allotted  hours  these  might  not  sprout,  but 
only  quicken  in  their  heart,  yet  blue-winged  wasps 
made  their  faith  more  manifest,  and  worked  with 
feverish  haste  to  gather  pellets  of  clay  and  fash- 
ion cells.  I  once  saw  even  the  beginning  of  stor- 
age— a  green  spider,  which  an  hour  later  was 
swallowed  by  a  passing  fish  instead  of  nourishing 
an  infant  wasp. 

Spiders  raised  their  meshes  where  shrimps  had 
skipped,  and  flies  hummed  and  were  caught  by 
singing  jungle  vireos,  where  armored  catfish  had 
passed  an  hour  or  two  before. 

So  the  elements  struggled  and  the  creatures 


268  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

of  each  strove  to  fulfil  their  destiny,  and  for  a 
little  time  the  rocks  and  I  wondered  at  it  to- 
gether. 

In  this  little  arena,  floored  with  sand,  dotted 
with  rushes  and  balconied  with  boulders,  many- 
hundreds  of  butterflies  were  gathered.  There 
were  five  species,  all  of  the  genius  Catopsilia,  but 
only  three  were  easily  distinguishable  in  life,  the 
smaller,  lemon  yellow  statira,  and  the  larger, 
orange  argente  and  pliilea.  There  was  also 
eubeUy  the  migrant,  keeping  rather  to  itself. 

I  took  some  pictures,  then  crept  closer;  more 
pictures  and  a  nearer  approach.  Then  suddenly 
all  rose,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  shattered  a  won- 
derful painting.  But  the  sand  was  a  lodestone 
and  drew  them  down.  I  slipped  within  a  yard, 
squatted,  and  mentally  became  one  of  them.  Si- 
lently, by  dozens  and  scores,  they  flew  around  me, 
and  soon  they  eclipsed  the  sand.  They  were  so 
closely  packed  that  their  outstretched  legs 
touched.  There  were  two  large  patches,  and  a 
smaller  area  outlined  by  no  boundary  that  I 
could  detect.  Yet  when  these  were  occupied  the 
last  comers  alighted  on  top  of  the  wings  of  their 
comrades,  who  resented  neither  the  disturbance 
nor    the    weight.      Two    layers    of    butterflies 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  269 

crammed  into  small  areas  of  sand  in  the  midst  of 
more  sand,  bounded  by  walls  of  empty  aii* — this 
was  a  strange  thing. 

A  little  later,  when  I  enthusiastically  reported 
it  to  a  professional  lepidopterist  he  brushed  it 
aside.  "A  common  occurrence  the  world  over, 
Rhopalocera  gathered  in  damp  places  to  drink.'* 
I,  too,  had  observed  apparently  similar  phenom- 
ena along  icy  streams  in  Sikhim,  and  around 
muddy  buffalo-wallows  in  steaming  Malay  jun- 
gles. And  I  can  recall  many  years  ago,  leaning 
far  out  of  a  New  England  buggy  to  watch  clouds 
of  little  sulphurs  flutter  up  from  puddles  beneath 
the  creaking  wheels. 

The  very  fact  that  butterflies  chose  to  drink 
in  company  is  of  intense  interest,  and  to  be  en- 
vied as  well  by  us  humans  who  are  temporarily 
denied  that  privilege.  But  in  the  Bay  of  Butter- 
flies they  were  not  drinking,  nor  during  the  sev- 
eral days  when  I  watched  them.  One  of  the 
chosen  patches  of  sand  was  close  to  the  tide  when 
I  first  saw  them,  and  damp  enough  to  appease 
the  thirst  of  any  butterfly.  The  other  two  were 
upon  sand,  parched  by  hours  of  direct  tropical 
sun,  and  here  the  two  layers  were  massed. 

The  insects  alighted,  facing  in  any  direction, 


270  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

but  veered  at  once,  heading  upbreeze.  Along 
the  riverside  of  markets  of  tropical  cities  I  have 
sten  fleets  of  fishing  boats  crowded  close  to- 
gether, their  gay  sails  drying,  while  great  ebony 
Neptunes  brought  ashore  baskets  of  angel  fish. 
This  came  to  mind  as  I  watched  my  flotillas  of 
butterflies. 

I  leaned  forward  until  my  face  was  hardly  a 
foot  from  the  outliers,  and  these  I  learned  to 
know  as  individuals.  One  sulphur  had  lost  a  bit 
of  hind  wing,  and  three  times  he  flew  away  and 
returned  to  the  same  spot.  Like  most  cripples, 
he  was  unamiable,  and  resented  a  close  approach, 
pushing  at  the  trespasser  with  a  foreleg  in  a  most 
unbutterfly-like  way.  Although  I  watched 
closely,  I  did  not  see  a  single  tongue  uncoiled 
for  drinking.  Only  when  a  dense  group  became 
uneasy  and  pushed  one  another  about  were  the 
tongue  springs  slightly  loosened.  Even  the  nerv- 
ous antennae  were  quiet  after  the  insects  had  set- 
tled. They  seemed  to  have  achieved  a  Rhopa- 
loceran  Nirvana,  content  to  rest  motionless  un- 
til caught  up  in  the  temporary  whirlwinds  of 
restlessness  which  now  and  then  possessed  them. 

They  came  from  all  directions,  swirling  over 
the  rocks,  twisting  through  near-by  brambles, 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  271 

and  settling  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  It 
was  as  though  they  had  all  been  here  many  times 
before,  a  rendezvous  which  brooked  not  an  in- 
stant's delay.  From  time  to  time  some  mass 
spirit  troubled  them,  and,  as  one  butterfly,  the 
whole  company  took  to  wing.  Close  as  they  were 
when  resting,  they  fairly  buffeted  one  another  in 
midair.  Their  wings,  striking  one  another  and 
my  camera  and  face,  made  a  strange  little  rus- 
tling, crisp  and  crackling  whispers  of  sounds. 
As  if  a  pile  of  Northern  autumn  leaves,  fallen  to 
earth,  suddenly  remembered  days  of  greenness 
and  humming  bees,  and  strove  to  raise  themselves 
again  to  the  bare  branches  overhead. 

Down  came  the  butterflies  again,  brushing 
against  my  clothes  and  eyes  and  hands.  All  that 
I  captured  later  were  males,  and  most  were  fresh 
and  newly  emerged,  with  a  scattering  of  dimmed 
wings,  frayed  at  edges,  who  flew  more  slowly, 
with  less  vigor.  Finally  the  lower  patch  was 
washed  out  by  the  rising  tide,  but  not  until  the 
water  actuallv  reached  them  did  the  insects  leave. 

ft-' 

I  could  trace  with  accuracy  the  exact  reach  of 
the  last  ripple  to  roll  over  the  flat  sand  by  the 
contour  of  the  remaining  outermo'^t  rank  of  in- 
sects. 


272  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

On  and  on  came  the  water,  and  soon  I  was 
forced  to  move,  and  the  hundreds  of  butterflies 
in  front  of  me.  When  the  last  one  had  left  I 
went  away,  returning  two  hours  later.  It  was 
then  that  I  witnessed  the  most  significant  hap- 
pening in  the  Bay  of  Butterflies — one  which 
shook  to  the  bottom  the  theory  of  my  lepidopter- 
ist  friend,  together  with  my  thoughtless  use  of 
the  word  normal.  Over  two  feet  of  restless 
brown  water  covered  the  sand  patches  and  rocked 
the  scouring  rushes.  A  few  feet  farther  up  the 
little  bay  the  remaining  sand  was  still  exposed. 
Here  were  damp  sand,  sand  dotted  with  rushes, 
and  sand  dry  and  white  in  the  sun.  About  a 
hundred  butterflies  were  in  sight,  some  continu- 
ally leaving,  and  others  arriving.  Individuals 
still  dashed  into  sight  and  swooped  downward. 
But  not  one  attempted  to  alight  on  the  exposed 
sand.  There  was  fine,  dry  sand,  warm  to  a  but- 
terfly's feet,  or  wet  sand  soaked  with  draughts 
of  good  Mazaruni  water.  But  they  passed  this 
unheeding,  and  circled  and  fluttered  in  two 
swarms,  as  low  as  they  dared,  close  to  the  surface 
of  the  water,  exactly  over  the  two  patches  of 
sand  which  had  so  drawn  and  held  them  or  their 
brethren  two  hours  before.    Whatever  the  ulti- 


THE  BAY  OF  BUTTERFLIES  273 

mate  satisfaction  may  have  been,  the  attraction 
was  something  transcending  humidity,  aridity,  or 
immediate  possibility  of  attainment.  It  was  a 
definite  cosmic  point,  a  geographical  focus, 
which,  to  my  eyes  and  understanding,  was  unrea- 
sonable, unsuitable,  and  inexplicable. 

As  I  watched  the  restless  water  and  the  but- 
terflies striving  to  find  a  way  down  through  it  to 
the  only  desired  patches  of  sand  in  the  world, 
there  arose  a  fine,  thin  humming,  seeping  up 
through  the  very  waves,  and  I  knew  the  singing 
catfish  were  following  the  tide  shoreward.  And 
as  I  considered  my  vast  ignorance  of  what  it  all 
meant,  of  how  little  I  could  ever  convey  of  the 
significance  of  the  happenings  in  the  Bay  of 
Butterflies,  I  felt  that  it  would  have  been  far  bet- 
ter for  all  of  my  green  ink  to  have  trickled  down 
through  the  grains  of  sand. 


XII 

SEQUELS 

Tropicai.  midges  of  sorts  live  less  than  a  day 
— sequoias  have  felt  their  sap  quicken  at  the 
warmth  of  fifteen  hundred  springs.  Somewhere 
between  these  extremes,  we  open  our  eyes,  look 
about  us  for  a  time  and  close  them  again.  Mod- 
ern political  geography  and  shifts  of  government 
give  us  Methusalistie  feelings — but  a  glance  at 
rocks  or  stars  sends  us  shuddering  among  the 
other  motes  which  glisten  for  a  moment  in  the 
sunlight  and  then  vanish. 

We  who  strive  for  a  little  insight  into  evolu- 
tion and  the  meaning  of  things  as  they  are,  for- 
ever long  for  a  glimpse  of  things  as  they  were. 
Here  at  my  laboratory  I  wonder  what  the  land 
was  like  before  the  dense  mat  of  vegetation  came 
to  cover  every  rock  and  grain  of  sand,  or  how 
the  rivers  looked  when  first  their  waters  trickled 
to  the  sea. 

All  our  stories  are  of  the  middles  of  things, — 
without   beginning    or    end;    we    scientists    are 

274 


SEQUELS  275 

plunged  suddenly  upon  a  cosmos  in  the  full  up- 
roar of  eons  of  precedent,  unable  to  look  ahead, 
while  to  look  backward  we  must  look  down. 

Exactly  a  year  ago  I  spent  two  hours  in  a 
clearing  in  the  jungle  back  of  Kartabo  labora- 
tory, and  let  my  eyes  and  ears  have  full  swing.^ 
Now  in  August  of  the  succeeding  year  I  came 
again  to  this  clearing,  and  found  it  no  more  a 
clearing.  Indeed  so  changed  was  it,  that  for 
weeks  I  had  passed  close  by  without  a  thought 
of  the  jungle  meadow  of  the  prev^ious  year,  and 
now,  what  finally  turned  me  aside  from  my  usual 
trail,  was  a  sound.  Twelve  months  ago  I  wrote, 
''From  the  monotone  of  under-world  sounds  a 
strange  little  rasping  detached  itself,  a  reiter- 
ated, subdued  scraping  or  picking.  It  carried 
my  mind  instantly  to  the  throbbing  theme  of  the 
Niebelungs,  onomatopoetic  of  the  little  ham- 
mers forever  busy  in  their  underground  work.  I 
circled  a  small  bush  at  mv  side,  and  found  that 
the  sound  came  from  one  of  the  branches  near 
the  top ;  so  with  my  glasses  I  began  a  systematic 
search."  This  was  as  far  as  I  ever  got,  for  a  flock 
of  parrakeets  exploded  close  at  hand  and  blew 
the  lesser  sound  out  of  mind.    If  I  had  stopped 

1  See  page  34. 


276  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

to  guess  I  would  probably  have  considered  the 
author  a  longicorn  beetle  or  some  fiddling  or- 
thopter. 

Now,  a  year  later,  I  suddenly  stopped  twenty 
yards  away,  for  at  the  end  of  the  silvery  cadence 
of  a  woodhewer,  I  heard  the  low,  measured,  tone- 
less rhythm  which  instantly  revived  to  mind  every 
detail  of  the  clearing.  I  was  headed  toward  a 
distant  palm  frond  beneath  whose  tip  was  a  nest 
of  Rufous  Hermits,  for  I  wished  to  see  the  two 
atoms  of  hummingbirds  at  the  moment  when  they 
rolled  from  their  petit  pois  egg-shells.  I  gave 
this  up  for  the  day  and  turned  up  the  hill,  where 
fifty  feet  away  was  the  stump  and  bush  near 
which  I  had  sat  and  watched.  Three  times  I 
went  past  the  place  before  I  could  be  certain, 
and  even  at  the  last  I  identified  it  only  by  the 
relative  position  of  the  giant  tauroneero  tree,  in 
which  I  had  shot  many  cotingas.  The  stump  was 
there,  a  bit  lower  and  more  worn  at  the  crevices, 
leaking  sawdust  like  an  overloved  doll — but  the 
low  shrub  had  become  a  tall  sapling,  the  weeds — 
vervain,  boneset,  velvet-leaf — all  had  been  topped 
and  killed  off  by  dense-foliaged  bushes  and 
shrubs,  which  a  year  before  had  not  raised  a  leaf 
above  the  meadow  level.     The  old  vistas  were 


SEQUELS  277 

gone,  the  landscape  had  closed  in,  the  wilderness 
was  shutting  down.  Nature  herself  was  "letting 
in  the  jungle."  I  felt  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  or 
even  more  alien,  as  if  the  passing  of  time  had 
been  accelerated  and  my  longed-for  leap  had 
been  accomplished,  beyond  the  usual  ken  of  man- 
kind's earthly  lease  of  senses. 

All  these  astounding  changes  had  come  to  pass 
through  the  heat  and  moisture  of  a  tropical  year, 
and  under  deliberate  scientific  calculation  there 
was  nothing  unusual  in  the  alteration.  I  remem- 
bered the  remarkable  growth  of  one  of  the  labor- 
atory bamboo  shoots  during  the  rainy  season — 
twelve  and  a  half  feet  in  sixteen  days,  but  that 
was  a  single  stem  like  a  blade  of  grass,  whereas 
here  the  whole  landscape  was  altered — new  birds, 
new  insects,  branches,  foliage,  flowers,  where 
twelve  short  months  past,  was  open  sky  above 
low  weeds. 

In  the  hollow  root  on  the  beach,  my  band  of 
crane-flies  had  danced  for  a  thousand  hours,  but 
here  was  a  sound  which  had  apparently  never 
ceased  for  more  than  a  year — perhaps  five  thou- 
hand  hours  of  daylight.  It  was  a  low,  penetrat- 
ing, abruptly  reiterated  beat,  occurring  about 
once  every  second  and  a  half,  and  distinctly  audi- 


278  EDGE  OP  THE  JUNGLE 

ble  a  hundred  feet  away.  The  "low  bush"  from 
which  it  proceeded  last  year,  was  now  a  respect- 
able sapling,  and  the  source  far  out  of  reacH 
overhead.  I  discovered  a  roundish  mass  among 
the  leaves,  and  the  first  stroke  of  the  ax  sent  the 
rhythm  up  to  once  a  second,  but  did  not  alter 
the  timbre.  A  few  blows  and  the  small  trunk 
gave  way  and  I  fled  for  my  life.  But  there  was 
no  angry  buzzing  and  I  came  close.  After  a  ces- 
sation of  ten  or  fifteen  seconds  the  sound  began 
again,  weaker  but  steady.  The  foliage  was  alive 
with  small  Azteca  ants,  but  these  were  tenants 
of  several  small  nests  near  by,  and  at  the  catas- 
trophe overran  everything. 

The  largest  structure  was  the  smooth  carton 
nest  of  a  wasp,  a  beautiful  species,  pale  yellow- 
ish-red with  wine-colored  wings.  Only  once  did 
an  individual  make  an  attempt  to  sting  and  even 
when  my  head  was  within  six  inches,  the  wasps 
rested  quietly  on  the  broken  combs.  By  care- 
ful watching,  I  observed  that  many  of  the  insects 
jerked  the  abdomen  sharply  downward,  butting 
the  comb  or  shell  of  smooth  paper  a  forceful  blow, 
and  producing  a  very  distinct  noise.  I  could  not 
at  first  see  the  mass  of  wasps  which  were  giving 
forth  the  major  rhythm,  as  they  were  hidden 


SEQUELS  279 

deep  in  the  nest,  but  the  fifty-odd  wasps  in  sight 
kept  perfect  time,  or  occasionally  an  individual 
skipped  one  or  two  beats,  coming  in  regularly 
on  every  alternate  or  every  third  beat.  Where 
they  were  two  or  three  deep,  the  uppermost 
wasps  struck  the  insects  below  them  with  their 
abdomens  in  perfect  rhythm  with  the  nest  beat. 
For  half  an  hour  the  sound  continued,  then  died 
down  and  was  not  heard  again.  The  wasps  dis- 
persed during  the  night  and  the  nest  was  de- 
serted. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  telegraphing  ants  which 
I  have  often  heard  in  Borneo,  a  remarkable 
sweeping  roll,  caused  by  the  host  of  insects  strik- 
ing the  leaves  with  their  heads,  and  produced 
only  when  they  are  disturbed.  It  appeared  to 
be  of  the  nature  of  a  warning  signal,  giving  me 
opportunity  to  back  away  from  the  stinging  le- 
gions which  filled  the  thicket  against  which  I 
pushed. 

The  rhythm  of  these  wasps  was  very  different. 
They  were  peaceable,  not  even  resenting  the  dev- 
astation of  their  home,  but  always  and  always 
must  the  inexplicable  beat,  beat,  beat,  be  kept  up, 
serving  some  purpose  quite  hidden  from  me. 
During  succeeding  months  I  found  two  more 


280  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

nests,  with  similar  fetish  of  sound  vibrations, 
which  led  to  their  discovery.  From  one  small 
nest,  which  fairly  shook  with  the  strength  of  their 
beats,  I  extracted  a  single  wasp  and  placed  him 
in  a  glass-topped,  metal  box.  For  three  minutes 
he  kept  up  the  rhythmic  beat.  Then  I  began  a 
more  rapid  tattoo  on  the  bottom  of  the  box,  and 
the  changed  tempo  confused  him,  so  that  he 
stopped  at  once,  and  would  not  tap  again. 

A  few  little  Mazaruni  daisies  survived  here 
and  there,  blossoming  bravely,  trying  to  believe 
that  the  shade  was  lessening,  and  not  daily  be- 
coming more  dense.  But  their  leaves  were  losing 
heart,  and  paling  in  the  scant  light.  Another  six 
months  and  dead  leaves  and  moss  would  have 
obliterated  them,  and  the  zone  of  brilliant  flowers 
and  gorgeous  butterflies  and  birds  would  shift 
many  feet  into  the  air,  with  the  tops  of  the  trees 
as  a  new  level. 

As  long  as  I  remained  by  my  stump  my  visi- 
tors were  of  the  jungle.  A  yellow-bellied  trogon 
came  quite  close,  and  sat  as  trogons  do,  very 
straight  and  stiff  like  a  poorly  mounted  bird, 
watching  passing  flycatchers  and  me  and  the 
glimpses  of  sky.  At  first  he  rolled  his  little 
cuckoo-like  notes,  and  his  brown  mate  swooped 


SEQUELS  281 

up,  saw  me,  shifted  a  few  feet  farther  off  and 
perched  full  of  curiosity,  craning  her  neck  and 
looking  first  with  one  eye,  then  the  other.  Now 
the  male  began  a  content  song.  With  all  j)ossible 
variations  of  his  few  and  simple  tones,  on  a  low 
and  very  sweet  timbre,  he  belied  his  unoscine 
perch  in  the  tree  of  bird  life,  and  sang  to  himself. 
Now  and  then  he  was  drowned  out  by  the  shrill- 
ing of  cicadas,  but  it  was  a  delightful  serenade, 
and  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  I  did.  A 
few  days  before,  I  had  made  a  careful  study  of 
the  syrinx  of  this  bird,  whom  we  may  call  rather 
euphoniously  Trogonurus  curucui,  and  had  been 
struck  by  the  simplicity  both  of  muscles  and 
bones.  Now,  having  summoned  his  mate  in  regu- 
lar accents,  there  followed  this  unexpected  whis- 
per song.  It  recalled  similar  melodies  sung  by 
pheasants  and  Himalayan  partridges,  usually 
after  they  had  gone  to  roost. 

Once  the  female  swooped  after  an  insect,  and 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  sweetest  passages  of 
the  male  trogon,  a  green  grasshopper  shifted  his 
position.  He  was  only  two  inches  away  from  the 
singer,  and  all  this  time  had  been  hidden  by  his 
ehlorophyll-hued  veil.  And  now  the  trogon 
fairly  fell  off  the  branch,  seizing  the  insect  al- 


282  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

most  before  the  tone  died  away.  Swallowing  iii 
with  considerable  difficulty,  the  harmony  was 
taken  up  again,  a  bit  throaty  for  a  few  notes. 
Then  the  pair  talked  together  in  the  usual  tro- 
gon  fashion,  and  the  sudden  shadow  of  a  passing 
vulture,  drew  forth  discordant  cat  calls,  as  both 
birds  swooped  from  sight  to  avoid  the  fancied 
hawk. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  vocal  seal  of  the  jun- 
gle was  uttered  by  a  quadrille  bird.  When  the 
notes  of  this  wren  are  heard,  I  can  never  imagine 
open,  blazing  sunshine,  or  unobstructed  blue  sky. 
Like  the  call  of  the  wood  pewee,  the  wren's  radi- 
ates coolness  and  shadowy  quiet.  No  matter 
how  tropic  or  breathless  the  jungle,  when  the; 
flute-like  notes  arise  they  bring  a  feeling  of  fresh- 
ness, they  arouse  a  mental  breeze,  which  cools 
one's  thoughts,  and,  although  there  may  be  no 
water  for  miles,  yet  we  can  fairly  hear  the  drip 
of  cool  drops  falling  from  thick  moss  to  pools  be- 
low. First  an  octave  of  two  notes  of  purest  sil- 
ver, then  a  varying  strain  of  eight  or  ten  notes, 
so  sweet  and  powerful,  so  individual  and  mean- 
ingful that  it  might  stand  for  some  wonderful 
motif  in  a  great  opera.  I  shut  my  ej^es,  and  I 
was  deaf  to  all  other  sounds  while  the  wren  sang. 


SEQUELS  283 

And  as  it  dwelt  on  the  last  note  of  its  phrase,  a 
cicada  took  it  up  on  the  exact  tone,  and  blended 
the  two  final  notes  into  a  slow  vibration,  begin- 
ning gently  and  rising  with  the  crescendo  of 
which  only  an  insect,  and  especially  a  cicada,  is 
master.  Here  was  the  eternal,  hypnotic  tom-tom 
rhythm  of  the  East,  grafted  upon  supreme  West- 
ern opera.  For  a  time  my  changed  clearing  be- 
came merely  a  sounding  box  for  the  most  thrill- 
ing of  jungle  songs.  I  called  the  wren  as  well  as 
I  could,  and  he  came  nearer  and  nearer.  The 
music  rang  out  only  a  few  yards  away.  Then 
he  became  suspicious,  and  after  that  each  phrase 
was  j)refaced  by  typical  wren  scolding.  He 
could  not  help  but  voice  his  emotions,  and  the 
harsh  notes  told  plainly  what  he  thought  of  my 
poor  imitation.  Then  another  feeling  would 
dominate,  and  out  of  the  maelstrom  of  harshness, 
of  tumbled,  volcanic  vocalization  would  rise  the 
pure  silver  stream  of  single  notes. 

The  wren  slipped  away  through  the  masses  of 
fragrant  Davilla  blossoms,  but  his  songs  re- 
mained and  are  with  me  to  this  moment.  And 
now  I  leaned  back,  lost  my  balance,  and  grasp- 
ing the  old  stump  for  support,  loosened  a  big 
piece  of  soft,  mealy  wood.     In  the  hollow  be- 


284  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

neath,  I  saw  a  rainbow  in  the  heart  of  the  dead 
tree. 

This  rainbow  was  caused  by  a  bug,  and  when 
we  stop  to  think  of  it,  this  shows  how  little  there 
is  in  a  name.  For  when  we  say  bug,  or  for  that 
matter  bogy  or  bugbear,  we  are  garbling  the 
sound  which  our  very,  very  forefathers  uttered 
when  they  saw  a  specter  or  hobgoblin.  They 
said  it  hugge  or  even  hwg,  but  then  they  were 
more  afraid  of  specters  in  those  days  than  we, 
who  imprison  will-o'-the-wisps  in  Very  lights,  and 
rub  fox-fire  on  our  watch  faces.  At  any  rate 
here  was  a  bug  who  seemed  to  ill-deserve  his 
name,  although  if  the  Niblelungs  could  fashion 
the  Rheingold,  why  could  not  a  bug  conceive  a 
rainbow? 

Whenever  a  human,  and  especially  a  house- 
human  thinks  of  bugs,  she  thinks  unpleasantly 
and  in  superlatives.  And  it  chances  that  evolu- 
tion, or  natural  selection,  or  life's  mechanism,  or 
fate  or  a  creator,  has  wrought  them  into  form 
and  function  also  in  superlatives.  Cicadas  are 
supreme  in  longevity  and  noise.  One  of  our 
northern  species  sucks  in  silent  darkness  for  sev- 
enteen years,  and  then,  for  a  single  summer, 
breaks  all  American  long-distance  records  for  in- 


SEQUELS  285 

sect  voices.  To  another  group,  known  as  Ful- 
gorids,  gigantic  heads  and  streamers  of  wax 
have  been  allotted.  Those  possessing  the  former 
rejoice  in  the  name  of  Lantern  Flies,  but  they 
are  at  present  unfaithful  vestal  bugs,  though  it 
is  extremely  doubtful  if  their  wicks  were  ever 
trimmed  or  lighted.  To  see  a  big  wax  bug  flying 
with  traihng  ribbons  slowly  from  tree  to  tree  in 
the  jungle  is  to  recall  the  streaming  trains  of  a 
flock  of  peacocks  on  the  wing. 

The  membracids  must  of  all  deserve  the  name 
of  "bugges"  for  no  elf  or  hobgoblin  was  ever 
more  bizarre.  Their  legs  and  heads  and  bodies 
are  small  and  aphid-like,  but  aloft  there  spring 
minarets  and  handles  and  towers  and  thorns  and 
groups  of  hairy  balls,  out  of  all  reason  and  sense. 
Only  Stegosaurus  and  Triceratops  bear  com- 
parison. Another  group  of  five-sided  bugs  are 
the  skunks  and  civet-cats  among  insects,  guard- 
ing themselves  from  danger  by  an  aura  of  ob- 
noxious scent. 

Not  the  least  strange  of  this  assemblage  is  the 
author  of  our  rainbow  in  the  stump.  My  awk- 
wardness had  broken  into  a  hollow  which  opened 
to  the  light  on  the  other  side  of  the  rotten  bole. 
A  vine  had  tendriled  its  way  into  the  crevice 


286  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

where  the  little  weaver  of  rainbows  had  found 
board  and  lodging.  We  may  call  him  toad- 
hopper  or  spittle-bug,  or  as  Fabre  says,"  Con- 
tentons-nous  de  Cicadelle,  qui  respecte  le  tym- 
pan,"  Like  all  of  its  kindred,  the  Bubble  Bug 
finds  Nirvana  in  a  sappy  green  stem.  It  has 
neither  strong  flight,  nor  sticky  wax,  thorny 
armature  nor  gas  barrage,  so  it  proceeds  to 
fashion  an  armor  of  bubbles,  a  cuirass  of  liquid 
film.  This,  in  brief,  was  the  rainbow  which 
caught  my  eye  when  I  broke  open  the  stump. 
Up  to  that  moment  no  rainbow  had  existed,  only 
a  little  light  sifting  through  from  the  vine-clad 
side.  But  now  a  ray  of  sun  shattered  itself  on 
the  pile  of  bubbles,  and  sprayed  itself  out  into  a 
curved  glory. 

Bubble  Bugs  blow  their  froth  only  when  imma- 
ture, and  their  bodies  are  a  distillery  or  home- 
brew of  sorts.  No  matter  what  the  color,  or 
viscosity  or  chemical  properties  of  sap,  regard- 
less of  whether  it  flows  in  liana,  shrub,  or  vine, 
yet  the  Bug's  artesian  product  is  clear,  tasteless 
and  wholly  without  the  possibility  of  being  blown 
into  bubbles.  When  a  large  drop  has  collected, 
the  tip  of  the  abdomen  encloses  a  retort  of  air, 
inserts  this  in  the  drop  and  forces  it  out.     In 


SEQUELS  287 

some  way  an  imponderable  amount  of  oil  or  dis- 
solved wax  is  extruded  and  mixed  with  the  drop, 
an  invisible  shellac  which  toughens  the  bubble 
and  gives  it  an  astounding  glutinous  endurance. 
As  long  as  the  abdominal  air-pump  can  be  ex- 
tended into  the  atmosphere,  so  long  does  the  pile 
of  bubbles  grow  until  the  insect  is  deep  buried, 
and  to  penetrate  this  is  as  unpleasant  an  achieve- 
ment for  small  marauders  as  to  force  a  cobweb 
entanglement.  I  have  draped  a  big  pile  of  bub- 
bles around  the  beak  of  an  insect-eating  bird,  and 
watched  it  shake  its  head  and  wipe  its  beak  in 
evident  disgust  at  the  clinging  oily  films.  In  the 
north  we  have  the  bits  of  fine  white  foam  which 
we  characteristically  call  frog-spittle,  but  these 
tropic  relatives  have  bigger  bellows  and  their 
covering  is  like  the  interfering  mass  of  films 
which  emerges  from  the  soap-bubble  bowl  when 
a  pipe  is  thrust  beneath  the  surface  and  that  de- 
licious gurgling  sound  produced. 

The  most  marvelous  part  of  the  whole  thing 
is  that  the  undistilled  well  which  the  Bubble  Bug 
taps  would  often  overwhelm  it  in  an  instant, 
either  by  the  burning  acidity  of  its  composition, 
or  the  rubber  coating  of  death  into  which  it 
hardens  in  the  air.    Yet  with  this  current  of  lava 


288  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

or  vitriol,  our  Bug  does  three  wonderful  things, 
it  distills  sweet  water  for  its  present  protective 
cell  of  bubbles,  it  draws  purest  nourishment  for 
continual  energy  to  run  its  bellows  and  pump, 
and  simultaneously  it  fills  its  blood  and  tissues 
with  a  pungent  flavor,  which  in  the  future  will 
be  a  safeguard  against  the  attacks  of  birds  and 
lizards.  Little  by  little  its  wings  swell  to  full 
spread  and  strength,  muscles  are  fashioned  in  its 
hind  legs,  which  in  time  will  shoot  it  through 
great  distances  of  space,  and  pigment  of  the 
most  brilliant  yellow  and  black  forms  on  its  wing 
covers.  When  at  last  it  shuts  down  its  little  still 
and  creeps  forth  through  the  filmy  veil,  it  is  im- 
mature no  longer,  but  a  brilliant  frog-hopper, 
sitting  on  the  most  conspicuous  leaves,  trusting 
by  pigmental  warning  to  advertise  its  inedibility, 
and  watchful  for  a  mate,  so  that  the  future  may 
hold  no  dearth  of  Bubble  Bugs. 

On  my  first  tramp  each  season  in  the  tropical 
jungle,  I  see  the  legionary  army  ants  hastening 
on  their  way  to  battle,  and  the  leaf -cutters  plod- 
ding along,  with  chlorophyll  hods  over  their 
shoulders,  exactly  as  they  did  last  year,  and  the 
year  preceding,  and  probably  a  hundred  thou- 
sand years  before  that.     The  Colony  Egos  of 


SEQUELS  289 

army  and  leaf-cutters  may  quite  reasonably  be 
classified  according  to  Kingdom.  The  former, 
with  carnivorous,  voracious,  nervous,  vitally  ac- 
tive members,  seems  an  intangible,  animal-like 
organism;  while  the  stolid,  vegetarian,  unemo- 
tional, weather-swung  Attas,  resemble  the  flow- 
ing sap  of  the  food  on  which  they  subsist — vege- 
table. 

Yet,  whatever  the  simile,  the  net  of  uncon- 
scious precedent  is  too  closely  drawn,  the  mesh 
of  instinct  is  too  fine  to  hope  for  any  initiative. 
This  was  manifested  by  the  most  significant  and 
spectacular  occurrence  I  have  ever  observed  in 
the  world  of  insects.  One  year  and  a  half  ago  I 
studied  and  reported  upon,  a  nest  of  Ecitons  or 
army  ants/  Now,  eighteen  months  later,  appar- 
ently the  same  army  appeared  and  made  a  simi- 
lar nest  of  their  own  bodies,  in  the  identical  spot 
near  the  door  of  the  out-house,  where  I  had  found 
them  before.  Again  we  had  to  break  up  the  tem- 
porary colony,  and  killed  about  three-quarters 
of  the  colony  with  various  deadly  chemicals. 

In  spite  of  all  the  tremendous  slaughter,  the 
Ecitons,  in  late  afternoon,  raided  a  small  colony 
of    Wasps-of-the-Painted-Nest.      These     little 

1  See  page  68. 


290  EDGE  OP  THE  JUNGLE 

chaps  construct  a  round,  sub-leaf  carton-home,  as 
large  as  a  golf  ball,  which  carries  out  all  the  re- 
quirements of  counter  shading  and  of  ruptive 
markings.  The  flattened,  shadowed  under  sur- 
face was  white,  and  most  of  the  sloping  walls 
dark  brown,  down  which  extended  eight  white 
lines,  following  the  veins  of  the  leaf  overhead. 
The  side  close  to  the  stem  of  the  leaf,  and  conse- 
quently always  in  deep  shadow,  was  pure  white. 
The  eaves  catching  high  lights  were  black.  All 
this  marvelous  merging  with  leaf  tones  went  for 
naught  when  once  an  advance  Eciton  scout  lo- 
cated the  nest. 

As  the  deadly  mob  approached,  the  wasplets 
themselves  seemed  to  realize  the  futility  of  offer- 
ing battle,  and  the  entire  colony  of  forty-four 
gathered  in  a  forlorn  group  on  a  neighboring 
leaf,  while  their  little  castle  was  rifled — larvae 
and  pupffi  torn  from  their  cells  and  rushed  down 
the  stems  to  the  chaos  which  was  raging  in  Eci- 
ton's  own  home.  The  wasps  could  guard  against 
optical  discovery,  but  the  blind  Ecitons  had 
senses  which  transcended  vision,  if  not  even  scent. 

Late  that  night,  our  lanterns  showed  the  rem- 
nants of  the  Eciton  army  wandering  aimlessly 
about,  making  near  approach  impossible,  but  ap- 


SEQUELS  291 

parently  lacking  any  definite  concerted  action. 
At  six  o'clock  the  following  morning  I  started 
out  for  a  swim,  when  at  the  foot  of  the  laboratory 
steps  I  saw  a  swiftly-moving,  broad  line  of  army 
ants  on  safari,  passing  through  the  compound  to 
the  beach.  I  traced  them  back  under  the  ser- 
vants' quarters,  through  two  clumps  of  bamboos 
to  the  out -house.  Later  I  followed  along  the 
column  down  to  the  river  sand,  through  a  dense 
mass  of  underbrush,  through  a  hollow  log,  up  the 
bank,  back  through  light  jungle — to  the  out- 
house again,  and  on  a  large  fallen  log,  a  few  feet 
beyond  the  spot  where  their  nest  had  been,  the 
ends  of  the  circle  actually  came  together!  It 
was  the  most  astonishing  thing,  and  I  had  to 
Verify  it  again  and  again  before  I  could  believe 
the  evidence  of  my  eyes.  It  was  a  strong  column, 
six  lines  wide  in  many  places,  and  the  ants  fully 
believed  that  they  were  on  their  way  to  a  new 
home,  for  most  were  carrying  eggs  or  larv^,  al- 
though many  had  food,  including  the  larvge  of 
the  Painted  Nest  Wasplets.  For  an  hour  at 
noon  during  heavy  rain,  the  column  weakened 
and  almost  disappeared,  but  when  the  sun  re- 
turned, the  lines  rejoined,  and  the  revolution  of 
the  vicious  circle  continued^ 


292  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

There  were  several  places  which  made  excel- 
lent points  of  observation,  and  here  we  watched 
and  marveled.  Careful  measurement  of  the  great 
circle  showed  a  circumference  of  twelve  hundred 
feet.  We  timed  the  laden  Ecitons  and  found 
that  they  averaged  two  to  two  and  three-quarter 
inches  a  second.  So  a  given  individual  would 
complete  the  round  in  about  two  hours  and  a 
half.  Many  guests  were  plodding  along  with  the 
ants,  mostly  staphylinids  of  which  we  secured  five 
species,  a  brown  histerid  beetle,  a  tiny  chalcid, 
and  several  Phorid  flies,  one  of  which  was  winged. 

The  fat  Histerid  beetle  was  most  amusing,  get- 
ting out  of  breath  every  few  feet,  and  abruptly 
stopping  to  rest,  turning  around  in  its  tracks, 
standing  almost  on  its  head,  and  allowing  the 
swarm  of  ants  to  run  up  over  it  and  jump  off. 
Then  on  it  would  go  again,  keeping  up  the  ter- 
rific speed  of  two  and  a  half  inches  a  second  for 
another  yard.  Its  color  was  identical  with  the 
Ecitons'  armor,  and  when  it  folded  up,  nothing 
could  harm  it.  Once  a  worker  stopped  and  an- 
tennsed  it  suspiciously,  but  aside  from  this,  it  was 
accepted  as  one  of  the  line  of  marchers.  Along 
the  same  route  came  the  tiny  Phorid  flies,  wing- 
less but  swift  as  shadows,  rushing  from  side  to 


SEQUELS  293 

side,  over  ants,  leaves,  debris,  impatient  only  at 
the  slowness  of  the  army. 

All  the  afternoon  the  insane  circle  revolved; 
at  midnight  the  hosts  were  still  moving,  the  sec- 
ond morning  many  had  weakened  and  dropped 
their  burdens,  and  the  general  pace  had  very  ap- 
.  preciably  slackened.  But  still  the  blind  grip  of 
instinct  held  them.  On,  on,  on  they  must  go! 
Always  before  in  their  nomadic  life  there  had 
been  a  goal — a  sanctuary  of  hollow  tree,  snug 
heart  of  bamboos — surely  this  terrible  grind  must 
end  somehow.  In  this  crisis,  even  the  Spirit  of 
the  Army  was  helpless.  Along  the  normal  paths 
of  Eciton  life  he  could  inspire  endless  enthu- 
siasm, illimitable  energy,  but  here  his  material 
units  were  bound  upon  the  wheel  of  their  perfec- 
tion of  instinct.  Through  sun  and  cloud,  day 
and  night,  hour  after  hour  there  was  found  no 
Eciton  with  individual  initiative  enough  to  turn 
aside  an  ant's  breadth  from  the  circle  which  he 
had  traversed  perhaps  fifteen  times :  the  masters 
of  the  jungle  had  become  their  own  mental  prey. 
Fewer  and  fewer  now  came  along  the  well 
worn  path;  burdens  littered  the  line  of  march, 
like  the  arms  and  accoutrements  thrown  down  by 
a  retreating  army.    At  last  a  scanty  single  line 


294  EDGE  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

struggled  past — tired,  hopeless,  bewildered, 
idiotic  and  thoughtless  to  the  last.  Then  some 
half  dead  Eciton  straggled  from  the  circle  along 
the  beach,  and  threw  the  line  behind  him  into 
confusion.  The  desperation  of  total  exhaustion 
had  accomplished  what  necessity  and  opportu- 
nity and  normal  life  could  not.  Several  others 
followed  his  scent  instead  of  that  leading  back 
toward  the  out-house,  and  as  an  amoeba  gradu- 
ally flows  into  one  of  its  own  pseudopodia,  so  the 
forlorn  hope  of  the  great  Eciton  army  passed 
slowly  down  the  beach  and  on  into  the  jungle. 
Would  they  die  singly  and  in  bewildered  groups, 
or  would  the  remnant  draw  together,  and  again 
guided  by  the  super-mind  of  its  Mentor  lay  the 
foundation  of  another  army,  and  again  come  to 
nest  in  my  out-house? 

Thus  was  the  ending  still  unfinished,  the  finale 
buried  in  the  future — and  in  this  we  find  the 
fascination  of  Nature  and  of  Science.  Who  can 
be  bored  for  a  moment  in  the  short  existence 
vouchsafed  us  here;  with  dramatic  beginnings 
barely  hidden  in  the  dust,  with  the  excitement  of 
every  moment  of  the  present,  and  with  all  of  cos- 
mic possibility  lying  just  concealed  in  the  future, 
whether  of  Betelgeuze,  of  Amoeba  or — of  our- 
selves?    Vogue  la  galere! 


Page 

Liiie 

4 

26 

8 

10 

18 

3 

4 

6 

22 

6 

23 

6 

25 

26 

26 

26 

5 

29 

6 

32 

2 

34 

18 

20 

36 

23 

37 

2 

38 

7 

18 

49 

26 

52 

3 

53 

15 

64 

26 

69 

6 

60 

16 

97 

10 

11 

103 

25 

109 

8 

APPENDIX  OF  SCIENTIFIC  NAMES 


Moriche   Oriole;    Icterus   chrysocephalus    (Linne^ 

Toad;    Bufo  guttatus  Schneid. 

Bat;    Furipterus  horrens  (F.  Cuv.) 

Large  Bats;     Vampyrus  spectrum   (Linn^) 

Vampire  Bats;    Desmodtis  rotundus   (GeoflF.) 

Giant     Catfisli,     Boom-boom;      Doras     granulosus 

Valen. 
Kiskadee;    Pitangus  s.    sulphuratus    (Linne) 
Parrakeets;    Touit  batavica  (Bodd.) 
Great     Black     Orioles;     Ostinops     d.    decumamia 

(Pall.) 
House  Wyens;  [Troglodytes  musculus  clarus  Berl, 

and  Hart 
Coati-mundi?    Nasua  n.  nasua  (Linne) 
Frog;    Phyllomedusa  sp. 
Mazaruni  Dairies;   Sipanea  pratensis  Aubl. 
Button  Weed;    Spermacoce  sp. 
Melancholy      Tyrant;      Tyrannus      nvelanchoUcus 

satrapa  (Cab.  and  Hein.) 
Monarch;    Anosia  plexippus   (Linn6) 
Red-breasted    Blue    Chatterer;     Cotinga    cotinga 

Linn6 
Yellow  Papilio;    Papilio  thoas  Linn6 
Parrakeets;    Touit  batc^vica  (Bodd.) 
Purple-throated  Cotinga*,   Cotinga  cayana  (Linne) 
Dark-breasted       Mourne-'*;        Lipaugus       simplex 

Licht. 
Toucans;    Ramphastus  vit*Uinus  Licht. 
White-fronted        Ant-bird;         Pithy  s       albifrons 

(Linne) 
Army  y\nts;    Eciton  burchelli  Westwood 
Great    Green    Kingfisher;     Chloroceryle    amazona 

(Lath.) 
Tiny  Emerald  Kingfisher;    Chlo'oceryle  americana 

(Gmel.) 
Gecko;    Thecadactylus  rapicaudug  (Houtt.) 
Howling  Monkevs;   Alouatta  semcnlus  macconnelli 

Elliot 

29jr 


296  APPENDIX 


Page 

Line 

113 

7 

116 

24 

126 

20 

132 

17 

183 

8 

149 

2 

151 

12 

152 

11 

11 

163 

3 

7 

164 

19 

173 

1 

5 

174 

7 

175 

1 

9 

181 

17 

182 

5 

231 

26 

232 

24 

233 

6 

8 

9 

10 

233 

17 

19 

19 

22 

242 

1 

3 

243 

15 

246 

11 

14 

15 

249 

14 

250 

10 

254 

1 

256 

6 

276 

10 

Bower  Bird;    Ptilonorhynchus  violaceus  (Vieill.) 
Cassava;    Janipha  manihot  Kth. 
Frog,   Gawain;    Phyllomedusa   sp. 
Marine  Toad;    Bufo   marinus    (Linne) 
Scarlet-thighed  Leaf-walker;    Phyllobates  inguin- 

a  lis. 
Attas,  Leaf-cutting  Ants;   Atta  cephalotes  (Fab.) 
Fruit  Bats;    Vampyrus  spectrum   (Linne) 
King  Vulture;    Gypagus  papa  (Linne) 
Harpy  Eagle;    Harpia  harpy ^a   (Linne) 
Ani;    Croiophaga  ani  Linne 
Marine  Toad;    Bufo  marinus  (Linne) 
White- faced    Opossum;     Metachirus    o.    opossum 

(Linn6) 
Attas,  Leaf-cutting  Ants;  Atta  cephalotes  (Fab.) 
Hummingbird;    Phoethornis  r.  ruber   (Linne) 
Tamandua;     Tamandua    t.    tetradactyla    (Linne) 
Trogon;    Trogon  s.  strigilatus  (Linne) 
Tarantula   Hawks;    Pepsis    sp. 
Cicada  larvae;    Quesada  gigas  Oliv. 
Roaches;    Attaphila   sp. 
Manatee;    Trichechus  manatus  Linn6 
Crocodile;    Caiman  sclerops   (Schneid.) 
Jacana;    Jacana  j.  jacana   (Linne) 
Gallinule;    lonornis   martinicus    (Linne) 
Green    Herons;    Butorides  striata   Linne 
Egrets;    Leucophoyx  t.   thula    (Molina) 
Kiskadees;    Pitangus  sulphuratus  (Linne) 
Black  Witch;    Crotophaga  ani   (Linne) 
House  Wren;    Troglodytes  musculus  clarus  Berl. 

and  Hart 
Manatee;    Trichechus  manatus   (Linne) 
Jacana;    Jacana   j.   jacana    (Linne) 
Gallinule;     lonornis   martinicus    (Linn6) 
Mongoose;    Mungos  mungo   (Gmel.) 
Little  Egret;    Leucophoyx  t.  thula  (Molina) 
Tri-colored  Heron;   Uydranassa  tricolor  (P.  L.  S. 

Mull.) 
Little  Blue  Heron;    Florida  c.  caerulea   (Linn^) 
White  Egret;    Casmerodius  egretta  (Gmel.) 
Night    Heron;     Nyctanassa    violacea    cayennensis 

(Linne) 
Giant     Catfish,     Boom-boom;     Doras     granulosus 

Valen. 
Long-armed       Beetle;       Acrocinus        longimanu* 

(Linn6) 
Rufus      Hummingbird;      Phoethornis      r.      ruber 

(Linn^) 


Pag^ 

lAne 

278 

16 

280 

10 

21 

282 

10 

284 

3 

289 

16 

APPENDIX  2^7 


Tapping  Wasp;    Synoeca   irina  Spinola 
Mazaruni  Daisy;    tSipanea  jnatensis   Aubl. 
Trogons;    Trogonurus  c.  curucui  (Linnc) 
Quadrille      Bird;       Levcolepis      musica      musica 

(Bodd.) 
Bubble  Bugs;    Cercopis  ruber 
Army;  Ants;    Eciton  burchelli  Westwood 


INDEX 


tlcrocinus  longimanus,  255-258 

Allamander,  121 

Alouatta  seniculu^  macconnelli, 
109 

Ani,  163,  233 

Avosia  plexipptia,  37 

Antbirds,  'vhite-fronted,  59, 
227 

Antlions,  27,  28 

Ants,  Army,  58,  60,  154,  282, 
289;  attack  on  wasps,  290; 
circular  marching  of,  291-294; 
cleaning  of,  79-81;  cleaning 
of  ground,  77;  crippled,  70, 
71,  81,  82;  enemies,  72; 
foraging  lines,  64;  guests, 
88,  292;  labor,  division  of, 
67;  larvae,  87;  nest,  59-61, 
74,  83,  289;  nest  entrance, 
74;  observing,  methods  of, 
63;  odor,  62,  64;  parasites, 
292;  prey  of,  67;  rain,  re- 
action to,  65,  66;  refuse 
heaps,  77,  78;  scavengers  of 
nest  piles,  78;  speed  of,  68, 
69,  292;  spinning  84-86; 
vitality,  69 

Ants,  Azteca,  278 

Ants,    Borneo   telegraph,   279 

Ants,  I.eaf-cutting,  7,  152, 
173,  289;  at  home,  172,  194; 
attack,  method  of  guard- 
ing against,  177;  at- 
tack, method  of,  177-179; 
battle  of  giant  soldiers,  163- 
171;     castes,     166;     enemies, 


162-163;   flight   of  kings   and 
queens,  185-188;  fungus,  180, 
181;    gardens,    fungus,    179- 
181,    189;    instinct,    190-192; 
leaf-chewing     in     nest,     180; 
leaves,       carrying,       158-162; 
leaves,     method     of    cutting, 
158;    name,    origin    of,    156; 
nest,     172;    nest,    foundation 
of,   152,   153,   189,   190;   para- 
sites,    external,     176;     paths, 
163-165;      queen,      152,      153 
queens,   young,  in   nest,    185 
raids     on     garden,     154-155 
scavengers      of      nest,      176 
speed     of,     165-166;     soldier 
description        of,        177-178 
trails,     163-165;     visitors     at 
nest,     174-176;     worker,     de- 
scription of,  156,  157 

Attaphlla,  182-185 

Attas.    See  Ants,  Leaf-cutting. 

Atta  cephalotes,   155,   173 


B 


Bamboos,  9,  13,  23-25 

Bats,  17-19 

Bats,  fruit,   151 

Bats,    vampire,    4,    18-21,    111, 

208 
Beach,  Jungle,  90-111 
Beena,  118 
Bees,  35-37,  175 
Beetle,  23 

Beetle,   Histerid,  292 
Beetle,  long-armed,  256-258 
Beetle,   rove,   72-73 


299 


300 


INDEX 


Beetle,   Staphylinid,   292 
Beetle,  water,   in   roots,  103 
Boom-boom,  22,   252-255 
Botanical  Gardens,  122 
Bower  Bird,  Purple,  113 
Bougainvillia,   121 
Boviander,  flowers   of,   120 
Bnfo  guttatus,  8 
Bufo  ^nariniis,  132,  163 
Bugs,  bubble,   284-288 
Bugs,  doodle,  28 
Butorides   striata,   233 
Butterfly,  37,  125 
Butterfly,  beryl  and  jasper,  42 
Butterfly,  migrating,   259-263 
Butterfly,   Monarch,   37 
Butterfly,  Morpho,  51 
Butterfly,    Social   gathering   of, 

268-273 
Butterfly,  Yellow  papilio,  38 
Button  weed,  34 


Caiman  sclerops,  232 

Caladium,    118 

Casareep,   117 

Cashew  trees,  4 

Casmerodius   eyretta,  249 

Cassava,   116 

Cassia,   44 

Catfish,  Giant.  See  Boom- 
boom,  22,  253,  254,  273 

Catopsilia,  species  of,  268 

Cercopis  ruber,  284 

Cereus,  night  blooming,  218 

Chanties,   6 

Chatterer,  Red-breasted  Blue, 
38 

Ckloroceryle   amazona,   97 

Chloroceryle  americana,  97 

Cicada,  36,  37 

Cicada,  song  of,  283 

Cicada,  larvae.  See  Quesada 
gigas. 

Clearing,  Jungle,  34-57,  275 

Clearing,  after  interval  of 
year,  276 


Coati-mundi,  29 

Color,   53,    54 

Convicts,  5,  7 

Convicts,  singing  hymns,  109 

Cotlnga  cayana,  52,  53 

Cotinga  cotinga,  38 

Cotinga,     Purple-throated,     52, 

53 
Cotton,   Indian,   117 
Cotton,   Sea   Island,   117 
Crabs,  in  roots,  103 
Crocodile,  232 
Crotophaga  ani,  163,  233 
Cuvuni  River,  9 

D 

Daisies,  Mazaruni,  34,  280 
Devilla  blossoms,  283 
Doodle-bugs,  28 
Doras  granulosus,  22,  254( 

E 

Eagle,  Harpy,   152 
Eciton.     See  Army  Ants 
Eciton  burcJielU,  60,  289 
Eggs,    Butterflv,  41-43 
Egrets,  233,  246,  249 
Ereops,  264,  265 


Fer-de-lance,  206 
Flambovant,   122 
Flies,  Chalcid,  292 
Flies,   Crane,   in   roots,   104-106 
Flies,  Phorid,  292 
Flies,  as  scavengers,  78 
Florida  c.   caerulea,  246 
Flowers  of  boviander,  120 
Flycatcher,    Kiskadee,    23,    233 
Flycatcher,  Melancholy  Tyrant, 

36 
Frangipani,    122 
Frog,      Scarlet-thighed      Leaf- 
walker,  133 
Frog,  Tree,  32,   132 
Furipterus  horrent,  IT,  18 


INDEX 


301 


Gallinule,  233,  242 

Galis,  46-47 

Garden,    Akawai    Indian,    115- 

119 
Garden,  Boviander,  120 
Garden,  Coolie  and  Negro,  120 
Garden,  Georgetown  Botanical, 

122,  230 
Garden,    Tropic,    230-251 
Gawain,  31-33,  126 
Gecko,  103,  104 
Ghost,  Kartabo,  25 
God-birds,  26 
Guests,  Army  Ant,  72 
Guinevere,   123-148 
Gypagus  papa,   152 


H 


Hammocks,  195;  accident  in, 
204;  capturing  bats  from, 
218-220;  Carib,  197,  198;  en- 
vironment and  dangers,  200, 
201;  hummingbirds  on,  223, 
224;  slinging  of,  198,  199, 
203,  209,  210;  sounds  and 
scents,  213-215;  trapping 
from,  205,  206;  watching 
army  ants  from,  225,  228; 
weaver-birds  nesting  on,  224( 

Harpia  harpyja,  152 

Herons,  green,  233 

Herons,  tittle  blue,  246 

Herons,  night,  250 

Herons,   rookery,   244-251 

Herons,  tricolored,  246 

Hope,   16 

Hummingbirds,  97,  174,  223, 
276 

Hyacinth,  water,  121 

Hydranassa   tricolor,   246 


Jacana,  233,  242 

Jacana  j.  jacana,  233,  242 

Janipha  niamhot,  116 

K 

Kalacoon,   1 

Kartabo,  1 

Kartabo,  history,  10-12 

Kartabo,  inmates,  21 

Kartabo,  morning  at,  23 

Kib,  29 

Kibihee,  29 

Kingfisher,    Great    Green,    97 

Kingfisher,    Tiny    Emerald,    97 

Kiskadee,  23,  233,  243 

Kunami,  117 

Kyk-over-al,  11,  12 


Lcucolepis  m.  musica.  282 
Leucoplioyx  t,  thula    233,  246 
Lilies,  water,  121 
Lipaugus  simpUx,  33 
Lotus,  121 

M 

Manatee,  231-236 
Martins,  4 

"Mazacuni"  River,  107 
Mazaruni  River,  9 
Metacliirus  a.  opossum,  164 
Monarch  Butterfly,  37 
Mongoose,  243 
Monkeys,  25 
Monkeys,  Howling,   109 
Mosquitoes,  202,  211 
^lourner.  Dark-breasted,  63 
Mungos  mungo,  243 


N 


Icterus   chrysocephalnf,   4 
lonorms  martinicus,  233,  242 


Nasua  n.  nasva, 
Kiebelungs,  49 


29 


302 


INDEX 


O 

Opossum,  164 
Orchid,  Toko-nook,   119 
Oriole,  Great  Black,  25 
Oriole,   Moriche,   4 
Ostinops  d.  decHmanus,  26 


Paddlers,  5 

Palm,  Cocoanut,  121 

Papilio  thoa^,  38 

Parasite,  egg-,  43,  44 

Parrakeets,  25,  49-51 

Peps  is,  sp.,  175 

Pets,  28-33 

Phoethornis   r.    ruber,   174,  276 

Phyllomedusa,  32,   126 

Phyllorrudusa  bicolor,  145 

PhyUobates  inguinalis,  133 

Pitangus     s.     sulphuratus,     23, 

233,  243 
Pithy s  albifrons,  59 
Plwari,   117 

Pool,  Jungle  Rain,  126-132 
Ptiloitorhynchus  violaceus,  113 

Q 

Quadrille  Bird,  282,  283 
Quesada  gigas,  181 

R 

Ramphcu^tus  vitelUniis,  64,  55 

Roach,   182 

Rocks,  tidal,  265,  266 

Roots,  98-106,  236 

Rozifes  qongylophora,  181 

Rushes,  264 


Scorpions,  181 

Sedges,   Scirpus,  264,  266 


Servants,  negro,   14,  15 
Sipanea  pratensis,  34,  280 
Snake,  tree,  in  hammock,  201 
Spermacoce  sp.  34 
Springtails,  in  armv  ants'  nest. 
88  '  ' 

Striders,  water,  129,  130 
Sunrise,  107,   108 
Swimming  at  night,  108-111 
Synoeca  irina,  278-280 


Tadpoles,  127,  130-148 
Tadpoles,  colors  of,  146,  147 
Tadpoles,     red-fins,     132,     133, 

136,  139,  141,   144 
Tadpoles,     short-tailed     blacks, 

132,  138 
Tamandua,  174 

Tamandua   f.    tetradactyla,   174 
Tanager,  Blue,  111 
Tarantula,  23 
Tarantula  Hawks,  175 
Termites,  154,  1C2 
Thecadactylus  rapicauda,  103 
Thraupis  epxscopns.  111 
Tidal,    area,    ecology    of,    266- 

268 
Toad,  7,  8 

Toad,  Marine,  132,  163 
Toko-nook,  Orchid,  119 
Toucans,  25,  64,  65,  5Q 
Touit  batavlca,  25,  49 
Tree,  Fallen,  95 
Tree,    Prostrate,    reactions    of, 

96,    97 
Treetop,  Fauna  of,  95 
Trichechns   manatus,   231,   233 
Troglodytes     musculus     clarus, 

26,  233 
Trogon,   175,   280-282 
Trogan    s.    strtgihtus,    175 
Trogonurvs    c.    cvrvctti,   280 
Tyrnnt.  Melancholy,  36 
Tyrannus      melancholicug      sa- 

trapa,  3S 


INDEX 


303 


Vampyrus  spectxum,  18 

Vervain,  35 

Victoria    regia,    231,    237,    240, 

241 
Vuliure,  King,  152 


W 

Wasps,  Ebony,  175 

AVasps,  Painted  Nest.  289-291 

AVasps,    Tapping,   278-280 

Wind,  Voice  of,  21 

Witch,  Black,  233 

AVrens,  House,  26,  27,  233 


